1085  (T 


CLOS 


FRANK  H 
SPEARM? 


UNIVERSITY  OP 
C  N'A 

SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822  01085  0758 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  DAY 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  DAY 


BY 

FRANK   H.   SPEARMAN 

DOCTOR   BRYSON,    THE   DAUGHTER   OF   A    MAGNATE 


NEW   YORK 

D.   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 
MCMIY 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published  January, 


So 

HARRY  DAW  SPEARMAN 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  A  SUPPER  IN  MICHIGAN  AVENUE       ....  1 

II.  THE  HANDWRITING      .......  22 

III.  DOCTOR  AND  PATIENT 27 

IV.  A  PHYSICIAN'S  DAUGHTER 41 

V.  IN  THE  CHORUS 54 

VI.  THE  MIKADO  COSTUME 67 

VII.  AT  THE  DEVINNE 80 

VIII.  A  SONG  AND  AN  ACCOUNTING 99 

IX.  ROSES  AND  VIOLETS 117 

X.  GEORGE  Ross 132 

XI.  A  WOMAN  BETWEEN 153 

XII.  ONE  FLOWER 161 

XIII.  THE  QUARREL  IN  THE  WOODS 179 

XIV.  THE  LAST  BALANCE 186 

XV.  A  REMINISCENCE 196 

XVI.  "  IN  NEW  YORK  " 204 

XVII.  ERRORS  AND  OMISSIONS  EXCEPTED     ....  216 

vii 


THE   CLOSE   OF  THE   DAY 


CHAPTER  I 

A  SUPPER  IN  MICHIGAN  AVENUE 

THE  Sunday  evening  gatherings  that  be 
came  at  one  time  so  popular  among  a  class 
of  Chicago  bachelors  may  be  said  almost  to 
owe  their  origin  to  the  small  companies  first 
assembled  by  George  Durant  in  the  quarters 
he  occupied  for  so  many  years  in  Michigan 
Avenue. 

His  rooms — the  inviting  apartments  in  the 
front,  the  famous  oval  dining-room  with  the 
southern  exposure,  and  on  the  second  floor  the 
smoking-room  with  the  fireplace — will  easily 
be  recalled  not  alone  by  the  many  who  have 
been  his  guests,  but  by  those  of  the  clubs  in 
which  he  was  known  and  in  which  men,  now 

1 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

elderly,  preserve  the  traditions  of  the  begin 
nings  of  the  new  life  in  Chicago;  the  life  in 
which  taste  and  means  brought  to  the  West 
the  arts  of  living  that  had  cost  the  East  the 
ingenuity  of  so  many  minds  and  the  period 
of  so  many  generations. 

The  recent  death  of  Durant,  under  circum 
stances  not  commonly  known,  has  been  the  oc 
casion  of  some  reminiscence  concerning  his 
characteristics.  To  note  but  one  of  the  numer 
ous  instances  told  of  his  tastes,  it  is  remem 
bered  that  Durant  brought  to  Chicago  its  rar 
est  Oriental  rugs.  At  the  time  his  effects  were 
disposed  of,  confidence  in  his  judgment  was 
well  marked  in  the  price  obtained  for  his  col 
lections,  and  in  the  advertising  that  State 
Street  dealers  gave  to  the  examples  they  then 
secured  of  his  discrimination  in  pattern  and 
excellence.  On  the  other  hand,  few  of  those 
fortunate  enough  to  possess  one  of  his  rugs 
are  aware  that  his  knowledge  concerning 
them  dated  back  to  a  trip  taken  when  a  boy 
to  visit  an  uncle,  the  Reverend  Nathaniel  Du 
rant,  long  resident  missionary  at  Kirman, 

2 


A  SUPPER  IN  MICHIGAN  AVENUE 

To  connect  the  name  of  George  Durant  with 
missionary  effort  of  any  sort  would  seem  at 
first  surprising ;  yet  what  afterward  developed 
into  a  wide  and  irregular  course  of  travel 
began  for  him  with  that  visit  early  in  life 
to  missionaries  in  Persia  and  Arabia.  The 
Durants  of  New  York  were  not  only  great 
merchants,  but  were  leaders  in  the  religious 
and  political  activities  of  the  period  of  the 
civil  war. 

However,  George  brought  from  the  Orient 
not  so  much,  it  is  to  be  feared,  an  apprecia 
tion  of  the  unselfish  toil  of  its  missionaries  as 
of  the  easy  philosophy  of  its  poets ;  and  the 
quatrains  of  Omar,  known  then  to  a  few 
through  Fitzgerald,  were  more  to  his  fancy 
than  the  colder  precepts  of  his  uncles.  In 
deed,  he  was  a  curious  combination  of  these 
antitheses  in  life — the  idler  and  the  man  of 
action. 

The  coffee-house  of  Sloan,  Durant  & 
Company,  of  New  York,  established  a  branch 
in  Chicago  shortly  after  the  fire.  From  that 
time  until  of  very  late  years,  George  Durant 

3 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

was  a  familiar  figure  in  the  streets  of  the 
wholesale  grocery  district  of  Chicago — con 
fined  closely  at  that  time  to  the  portion  of  the 
city  bounded  on  the  west  by  State  Street  and 
on  the  south  by  Randolph.  So  clearly,  in  fact, 
was  the  district  then  defined  that  in  1877  but 
one  jobbing  grocery  house  stood  outside  it; 
that  of  Grannis  &  Farwell,  in  Franklin 
Street,  near  Madison. 

Sloan,  Durant  &  Company  were  in  those 
days  the  principal  factors  in  Brazilian  coffees. 
With  one  other  giant  merchant,  B.  G.  Arnold, 
they  made  the  market.  It  was  before  the 
founding  of  the  exchanges ;  before  the  hourly 
Hamburg  and  Havre  cables ;  before  the  day  of 
the  Arbuckles  and  the  Havemeyers  in  coffee. 
It  was  then  not  a  question  of  daily  receipts  at 
Rio,  at  Santos:  it  was  a  question  of  whether 
Sloan-Durant  or  Arnold  were  behind  the 
market.  With  their  facilities  and  their  capi 
tal  they  set  at  defiance  statistics  and  dealt 
those  frightful  blows  that  gradually  under 
mined  the  resources  of  such  clever  statisticians 
as  White  and  Myron  Barton. 

4 


A  SUPPER  IN  MICHIGAN  AVENUE 

George  Durant,  at  twenty-two,  took  the 
street  for  the  Sloan-Durant  branch  in  Chi 
cago  ;  the  best  of  those  brokers  that  had  pre 
viously  handled  the  consigned  business, 
George  took  into  the  office  with  him.  The 
accounting  was  under  Thomas  Seymour,  a 
very  old  employee  of  the  New  York  house; 
a  man  who  knew  only  two  things,  the  prestige 
of  the  house  of  Sloan,  Durant  &  Company, 
and  from  long  service  in  the  New  York  office 
the  location  of  every  crack  in  the  pavement  of 
Front  Street.  There  were  old  brokers  of  that 
day  who  said  that  Tom  Seymour  had  been  sent 
out  by  the  elder  Durant  chiefly  to  keep  an 
eye  on  George,  who  was  young,  exceedingly 
virile,  and  somewhat  inclined  to  a  free  life. 
They  said  that  Thomas  himself,  afflicted  as  far 
back  as  1875  with  a  trembling,  and  painfully 
near-sighted,  had  at  one  time  given  more  at 
tention  to  Front  Street  lamp-posts  than  to 
pavement  cracks;  that  something  of  the 
glamour  of  Jim  Fisk's,'  career  had  unsettled 
him,  and  that  the  senior  Durant  had  straight 
ened  him  out  and  made  both  a  man  of  him  and 

5 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

a  loyal  servant  to  his  interests;  and  that 
Tom  was  expected  to  overlook,  somewhat, 
his  son's  tendencies  to  the  freedom  of  able 
and  prosperous  young  men  of  his  type.  Such 
prophets — men  rich  in  experience  and  with 
out  cares  of  a  bank  account — predicted  that 
George  would  keep  old  Tom  busy.  If  he 
did,  it  is  certain  that  Thomas  never  com 
plained. 

For  twenty  years  Thomas  Seymour  was 
faithful  to  his  charge.  Any  one,  he  declared, 
is  liable  at  times  to  go  too  far.  George,  when 
all  was  said  and  done,  was  a  good  liver;  no 
more.  Was  there  a  Sloan-Durant  invoice  of 
goods  sold  and  delivered,  no  matter  how  small 
in  amount,  no  matter  how  inscrutably  accurate 
in  tare  and  detail,  that  left  Thomas  Seymour's 
hands  without  the  legendary  reservation,  "E. 
and  0.  E."  1  In  like  manner  Thomas  Seymour 
argued  with  himself  of  George  Durant.  He 
was  as  big,  as  generous,  as  fine  a  fellow  in 
every  way  one  took  him  as  could  be  found 
anywhere  on  earth,  and  bar  nor  time  nor  place 
• — errors  and  omissions  excepted.  And  after 

6 


A  SUPPER  IN  MICHIGAN  AVENUE 

seventeen  years  of  E.  and  0.  E.  in  Chicago  it 
was  again  Sunday  night;  it  was  again  nine 
o'clock,  and  after  many  similar  experiences 
Mr.  George  Dnrant  was  again  sitting  down 
to  supper. 

He  understood,  among  other  things,  the  art 
of  lighting  a  room.  The  luxury  of  diffusion 
he  made  his  own  before  it  had  been  seen  by 
those  that  talked  of  it.  For  the  dining-room, 
on  the  other  hand,  which  was  in  bog  oak — the 
rooni  without  a  corner — he  studied  obscurity 
and  let  shadow  procure  the  effects.  The  can 
dles  lighted  softly  the  linen  and  the  silver  of 
the  table,  no  more.  If  in  the  gloom  above  and 
away  from  the  table  an  object  reflected  their 
deadened  rays,  it  was  the  brightness  of  the 
plate  on  the  sideboard  or  the  prismed  facets 
of  cut-glass — or  from  the  panels  of  the  china- 
closet  a  suggestion  of  pure  white  or  of  the 
heavy  reds  of  a  dinner-set.  The  dining-room 
was  always  quiet  and  restful,  even  if  the 
guests  inclined  at  times  to  animation.  On 
this  Sunday  night,  in  1895,  seven  sat  with  him 
at  table.  Two  were  especial  guests — stage 
2  7 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

people — of  whose  society  Durant  was  fond: 
Sophie  le  May,  a  Parisian  ballad  singer,  who 
visited  Chicago  for  the  first  time,  and  spoke  a 
hardly  understandable  stage  English;  and 
Clara  Nightingale,  an  American  girl,  a 
dancer,  who,  with  her  special  art,  had  in 
vaded  and,  oddly  enough,  overcome  Paris 
itself. 

Formality,  there  was  none.  They  sat,  men 
and  women,  as  they  listed.  The  third  woman 
of  the  party,  Mabel  Anthony,  a  musical  critic, 
with  a  strong,  clear  face,  and  hair  rolled 
high,  just  showing  gray,  sat  at  the  foot  of  the 
table — chaperon,  she  said,  of  these  two  young 
women,  cast  among  bachelors.  The  remain 
ing  guests  were  Clara  Nightingale's  manager, 
David  Stein;  Frank  James,  a  young  banker, 
one  of  Durant's  friends  on  the  street,  and 
Harry  Lawrence,  manager  of  theatrical  en 
terprises. 

The  eating  was  leisurely  but  the  conversa 
tion  continuous.  While  Durant  talked  with 
Clara  Nightingale  and  with  Lawrence,  Mabel 
Anthony  listened  to  Stein,  and  the  French- 

8 


A  SUPPER  IN  MICHIGAN  AVENUE 

woman  engaged  the  banker  with  a  fire  of 
questions. 

"Tell  me,"  she  commanded,  with  Gaelic 
bluntness,  "about  Mr.  Durant.  Is  he  such  a 
big  man!" 

"Length  or  breadth?" 

"You  must  not  make  fun  of  my  English.  I 
will  not  like  you.  I  mean — you  know  what  I 
mean — in  what  you  call  business." 

"Moderately  big.  The  house  he  is  the  head 
of  are  the  largest  importers  of  coffee  in  this 
country." 

"Since  when?" 

"For  a  good  many  years ;  particularly  since 
George  Durant  has  been  the  head  of  the 
house." 

"How  does  he  make  such  a  big  business  f ' 

The  banker  laughed.  "I'll  tell  you  one  way. 
A  number  of  years  ago  while  he  was  in  Egypt 
there  was  a  panic  in  the  coffee  market.  The 
coffee  business,  you  must  know,  m'm'selle, 
is  a  great  speculation.  All  the  big  houses  but 
Sloan-Durant  failed,  and  they  were  hard  hit. 
Sloan,  the  head  of  the  house,  ultimately  went 

9 


to  the  insane  asylum.  This  man's  father  be 
came  a  physical  wreck;  died  shortly  after 
ward.  A  third  partner,  the  financial  man, 
Ross,  pulled  out,  but  it  killed  him.  When 
young  Durant  came  back  everything  was 
in  confusion.  It  took  him  a  year  to  get 
hold  of  the  thing  and  straighten  the  tangle 
out.  All  the  time  the  coffee  market  was  fear 
fully  sick.  When  prices  got  below  the  cost 
of  production  George  went  to  his  banker " 

"You!" 

"My  father.  He  borrowed  of  him  every  dol 
lar  he  could,  and  began  buying  coffee.  Spots, 
afloats,  options,  anything,  everything  he  could 
pick  up.  The  situation  was  against  him. 
Hamburg  buyers,  French  buyers,  the  New 
York  roasters  were  all  hammering  the  market. 
But  practically  without  a  dollar  of  capital — 
because  that  of  the  house  had  been  swept 
away  the  year  before — he  bought  all  the  coffee 
he  could  get,  turned  in  the  warehouse  receipts 
for  his  purchases,  and  every  time  the  market 
went  off  sailed  in  harder — understand?"  She 
nodded  intensely. 

10 


A  SUPPER  IN  MICHIGAN  AVENUE 

"Then  like  that" — the  banker  snapped  his 
finger — "the  market  changed.  Coffee  began 
to  go  up.  It  went  up  and  kept  going  up. 
Brazil,  Hamburg,  France,  New  York,  every 
where.  Sloan,  Durant  &  Company  had 
practically  the  visible  supply.  When  Ham 
burg  wanted  coffee,  it  had  to  consult  Sloan, 
Durant  &  Company:  that  meant  George 
Durant.  He  unloaded  as  it  suited  him; 
thousands  and  thousands  of  bags  went  out 
at  a  profit  of  ten  and  twelve  dollars;  cof 
fee  he  never  handled  or  saw  made  his  for 
tune.  That  is  one  way  he  made  the  big 
business." 

"Did  he  make  so  very  much  money  1" 

"Very  much  for  the  coffee  trade." 

"How  muchf  asked  Sophie,  with  inter 
est  as  glowing  as  if  the  money  were  her  very 
own. 

"A  million,  two  millions,  I  guess;  ask 
him." 

"Two  millions !" 

"It  kept  the  coffee  trade  guessing  for  a 
while ;  but  that's  history.  For  a  while  it  kept 

11 


THE    CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

him  guessing.  It  didn't  all  come  at  once. 
Every  one  knows  the  story  of  the  deal.  What 
every  one  doesn't  know  is  how  he  carried  the 
load — the  worry — while  the  market  was  going 
against  him,  before  the  tide  turned  and  swept 
a  million  dollars  at  him  so  fast  he  couldn't 
tell  what  to  do  with  his  money,"  smiled  the 
young  banker  from  behind  his  sober  spec 
tacles.  But  the  soberness  of  his  spectacles, 
like  the  soberness  with  which  Chicago  good 
fellows  surround  themselves,  could  not,  after 
the  dinner  hour,  always  be  depended  upon. 
There  was  behind  the  spectacles  more  light 
than  day  indicated. 

"Tell  me  about  that." 

"The  excitement  lasted  about  two  months 
— November  and  December.  You  know  here 
on  the  lake  November  and  December  are  rough 
months.  Almost  every  day  for  those  two 
months  it  was  his  custom  to  leave  his  office 
at  two  o'clock  sharp — sometimes  alone,  some 
times  with  his  office  man,  Seymour — walk 
over  to  Clark  Street  bridge,  charter  a  tug 
and  order  it  straight  out  into  the  lake  for 
12 


A.  SUPPER  IN  MICHIGAN  AVENUE 

ten,  fifteen,  twenty  miles.  The  worse  the 
weather  the  better  he  liked  it.  He  would  steam 
out  in  some  of  the  most  infernal  blows  you 
ever  saw.  Very  often  tug  captains  would  re 
fuse  to  take  their  boats  from  the  harbor. 
Durant  would  try  one  after  another  until  he 
struck  the  most  reckless  man  in  the  fleet,  and 
would  bribe  him  to  the  chin  to  scuttle  down 
the  river  and  straight  ahead  out  into  the  mix- 
up.  Wind,  sleet,  snow,  water,  riot — they  say 
he  took  it  as  calmly  as  a  Turkish  bath.  There 
was  something  funny  about  it,  too,"  the  banker 
went  on  in  an  undertone,  the  butler  filling 
his  glass.  "Don't  be  afraid  of  this  wine, 
m'm'selle,"  he  added,  interrupting  himself. 
"It's  like  you — the  flower  of  France.  That's 
right.  Did  you  ever  do  any  tug-riding  in  a 
blow?  Seymour  didn't  like  that  kind  of  fun 
a  bit ;  he  was  greatly  averse  to  water.  Durant 
would  drag  him  from  the  office,  get  him  aboard 
a  tug  and  head  him  into  the  lake  without  a 
quiver.  When  poor  Seymour  got  seasick 
Durant  would  laugh  like  a  pirate  at  him; 
when  he  got  scared  Durant  would  curse  him 
13 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

roundly  and  force  him  to  face  the  gale  as  grim 
as  a  lion." 

"How  droll !   Why  did  he  make  such  trips !" 

"He  once  told  my  father  it  was  to  keep  from 
going  crazy." 

They  left  the  table  at  twelve,  but  the  curios 
ity  of  the  ballad  singer  was  still  unwearied. 
In  the  smoking-room  she  attached  herself  to 
Durant. 

"They  tell  me!"  she  exclaimed,  clasp 
ing  her  hands  over  her  knees  as  she  sat 
facing  him,  "how  very  much  money  you 
make !" 

Durant's  eyes  were  gray  and  set  a  little 
wide  of  a  true  axis.  They  gave  him  a  serious 
expression,  which  his  face  lost  only  in  inter 
vals.  His  manner  was  blunt,  and  his  tone 
escaped  actual  harshness  only  through  a  note 
of  honesty. 

"Did  they  tell  you,"  he  asked  without  a 
smile,  "how  much  I  lose?" 

"Oh,  no ;  I  like  not  very  much  to  hear  that  ; 
it  is  better  to  make.  Tell  me  how  much  you 
make." 

14 


A  SUPPER  IN  MICHIGAN  AVENUE 

"The  winnings  are  not  so  easily  figured  as 
the  losses." 

"It  is  very  strange,"  she  persisted,  "that 
you  will  tell  me  nothing  and  sometimes  you 
make  one,  two,  three  thousand  dollars  the  day. 
And  poor  I — I  must  sing  five,  six,  seven  times 
the  week  for  one  little  thousand." 

"You  should  change  managers,"  suggested 
Durant. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Lawrence,"  sighed  the  artist 
shrugging,  "he  says  always  the  high  ex 
penses!  Pray,  where  did  you  find  buttons 
like  those?"  she  murmured,  flitting  from  a 
topic  that  would  not  go  to  one  that  caught 
her  fancy.  "They  look  so  old  and  Roman — 
and  wicked." 

"They  are.  They're  from  a  wicked  city," 
replied  Durant,  as  she  examined  his  cuff. 

"Paris?" 

"Pompeii." 

"Most  rare !"  she  exclaimed.  "Are  you  not 
ashamed,  you  Americans,  to  come  to  our  coun 
tries  with  all  your  money  and  buy  all  the 
pretty  things  t" 

15 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"The  prettiest  are  not  always  to  be  bought  ; 
but  I'll  have  to  try  at  you  for  a  song.  If  you 
will  sing  you  shall  take  the  buttons  with  you 
when  you  leave  Chicago." 

She  looked  a  horrified  expression.  "After 
such  a  supper?"  Then  she  looked  at  the  but 
tons  and  clapped  her  hands.  "No  matter ;  in 
an  hour.  I  shall  not  give  you  the  chance  of — 
what  you  call  it — repent?  Oh,  no." 

Within  the  appointed  time  M'm'selle  le  May, 
curiously  long-armed  and  sprightly,  having, 
with  incredible  ingenuity  and  the  assistance 
of  a  silk  hat,  top-coat  and  cane,  rigged  herself 
as  a  Parisian  swell,  sang  one  of  Richepin's 
songs.  To  the  warm  applause  she  graciously 
responded  with  a  coon  song  that  in  her  English 
was  irresistible.  Afterward  there  was  weird 
dancing  by  Clara  Nightingale,  and  a  scene  of 
mock  heroics  between  Miss  Anthony  and  the 
young  banker — who  figured  in  other  things 
besides  discounts — from  the  Lady  of  Lyons 
in  honor,  so  they  said,  of  their  French  guest, 
who,  cuddled  far  back  in  a  Morris  chair, 
laughed  to  tears.  When  the  gaiety  had  become 
16 


A  SUPPER  IN  MICHIGAN  AVENUE 

general,  Durant,  somewhat  away  from  the 
livelier  part  of  the  company,  was  having  a  con 
fab  with  the  little  dancer,  whose  cheeks  had 
been  flushed  and  whose  breath  had  been  short 
ened  by  her  own  efforts  to  entertain.  He  took 
from  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  small  square  of 
jewelers'  paper  and  unfolding  it  under  the 
ray  of  a  friendly  lamp  showed  her  a  pearl. 
The  pearl  was  unmounted :  in  size  as  large  as 
a  hazel-nut,  but  of  a  shape  difficult  to  describe, 
resembling  more  than  anything  else  an  egg 
flattened  at  each  end.  Yet  the  shape  was  per 
fect,  and  the  pink  as  soft  as  a  sky  glow.  She 
repressed  an  exclamation. 

""Where  did  it  come  from?    I   never   saw 
anything  so  exquisite !    I  know.    India  ?" 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  he,  bluntly.  "If 
it  had  come  from  India  I  shouldn't  be  show 
ing  it  to  you.  There  is  a  good  deal  more  about 
this  to  interest  you  than  any  Indian  pearl  ever 
found.  It  came  from  the  country  you  came 
from.  It  is  an  American  pearl  from  the  Mis 
sissippi  Elver,  and  it  was  found  not  a  hun 
dred  miles  from  your  old  home." 
17 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Tell  me  where  you  got  it!"  she  exclaimed, 
dazed. 

"I  was  sitting  at  the  desk  of  one  of  my  cus 
tomers  yesterday  morning  talking  coffee." 
He  spoke  with  the  secure  deliberation  of  one 
that  offers  a  good  story.  "One  of  the  house 
salesmen  came  up  and  took  this  pearl  from 
his  pocket  to  show  it  to  the  man  I  was  talking 
to.  The  salesman's  brother-in-law  is  a  grocer 
at  Prairie  du  Chien,  and  this  was  brought  to 
him  less  than  a  week  ago  by  a  clam-fisher — a 
boy  of  fourteen — and  sent  on  to  Chicago  to 
sell.  I  thought  when  I  saw  it  of  where  it  came 
from,  and  thought  of  you.  You  used  to  say 
you  felt  as  if  you  were  shut  up  in  a  clam-shell 
out  there  in  Iowa,  and  I  remembered  you  had 
promised  to  be  here  to-night.  I  thought  if 
you  came  you  should  have  this  just  as  it  is 
for  keeping  your  word.  No  one  has  touched  it : 
it  hasn't  been  polished  or  scrubbed.  You  see  it 
now  just  as  the  boy  took  it  from  the  shell." 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  amazement  and  grat 
itude.  "It  is  an  awful  thing,"  said  she,  hur 
riedly,  "to  cast  pearls  before  swine  in  this 
18 


way.     Do  you  really  mean  it?    Hadn't  you 
better  reconsider?" 

"Whenever  I  reconsider  anything  I'm  sorry 
for  it.  Suppose  we  let  it  stand." 

"Then  I  shall  take  it  to  Paris,"  she  declared, 
looking  from  it  in  her  hand  to  him,  "and  have 
it  mounted  there.  I'll  carry  it  all  the  way" — 
she  put  one  hand  to  her  throat — "in  my  cha 
mois  sack.  When  I  come  back  you  shall  see  it 
in  glory." 

"There's  a  trace  of  sentiment  in  it  for  me," 
he  replied.  "I  know  something  about  the  time 
you  had  getting  started.  The  first  time  I  ever 
saw  you — remember — V '  She  laughed,  hiding 
her  head.  "You  were  something  in  the  state 
of  this  pearl — not  long  out  of  the  Missis 
sippi.  But  you've  won  your  way.  I  like  your 
grit.  That's  another  reason  I  thought  you 
ought  to  have  it.  They  want  you  to  dance 
again."  There  was  calling  from  the  front 
room. 

"I  will  if  you  want  me  to — but  I'm  so  tired," 
she  pleaded,  clinging  with  both  hands  to  his 
arm.    "What  shall  I  say?" 
19 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY, 

"Whatever  you  please." 

"May  It" 

"Sure." 

Catching  up  her  skirts  she  ran  to  the  por 
tieres  and  waved  herself  at  the  company  with 
the  ruddy  vigor  of  a  girl  shooing  chicks. 
"Shoo !  Run  home — every  one  of  you.  Quick ! 
Shoo !  Eun  home  and  go  to  bed !"  They  de 
murred,  but  she  persisted  till  she  drove  them 
all  before  her.  The  supper  was  over. 

There  were  many  delays  in  getting  into  the 
carriages.  Miss  Anthony  and  Frank  James 
finally  drove  away.  The  carriage  of  Law 
rence  and  Stein  was  delayed  longer,  for  Sophie 
le  May  would  never  be  done  bundling,  and  she 
made  good  the  sleeve-buttons  before  she  left. 
"When  she  and  Clara  Nightingale  were  tucked 
in,  Clara,  just  as  Durant  walked  back  into  the 
house,  remembered  she  had  left  her  flowers, 
and  slipped  out  of  the  carriage  after  them. 
Tapping  on  the  glass  she  stopped  Durant  in 
the  vestibule.  As  he  opened  the  door  she  swung 
it  shut  after  her  and  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck.  She  kissed  him.  "There!  That's 
20 


A  SUPPEE  IN  MICHIGAN  AVENUE 

for  the  pearl !  Now  run,  like  a  good  boy,  and 
get  me  some  flowers  to  carry  out  for  an  ex 
cuse,  will  you?" 

"See  here,  little  girl.  Somebody  will  clip 
your  wings  if  you  fly  too  far.  Understand  ?" 
She  ran  away  laughing,  and  Durant  closed 
the  door. 


21 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  HANDWRITING 

FOB  nearly  forty  years  George  Durant, 
whether  entitled  to  it  or  not — his  missionary 
uncles  might  have  said  not — had  slept  the 
sleep  of  the  just,  and  on  that  Sunday  night 
he  turned  his  face  to  his  pillow  with  the  confi 
dence  and  content  of  perfect  health  and 
strength.  For  as  many  years  he  had  awak 
ened  refreshed  and  invigorated.  That  was  the 
old  sleep. 

But  this  sleep,  begun  unsuspectingly,  was 
to  be  in  Durant's  life  a  new  sleep.  He  woke 
not  to  the  rebellious  ease  that  resented  the 
searching  rays  of  a  late  sun ;  he  woke  before 
it  seemed  he  had  closed  his  eyes.  Woke  sud 
denly,  confused,  every  sense  clutched  in  pain 
that  left  neither  motion  nor  breath  nor 
thought,  and  he  lay  in  a  trance  like  one  tor 
tured  to  the  limit  of  endurance.  His  mind 
22 


THE    HANDWRITING 

asserted  itself  first  with  questioning  horror. 
He  tried  to  move,  and  the  effort  cost  him  a 
groan.  Bound  motionless  by  his  agony  his 
mind  gradually  woke,  and  he  tried  to  think 
what  had  happened.  The  pain  was  convul 
sive,  constant,  frightful ;  moisture  beaded  his 
forehead,  and  intolerable  faintness  and  nau 
sea  crowded  the  short  intervals  that  followed 
keener  twinges.  He  tried  to  move  and  lay  like 
a  victim  under  a  tiger's  paw,  stopped.  He 
kept  perfectly  still,  hoping  the  torture  would 
forget  him  and  wear  away.  He  dug  his  fin 
gers  blindly  into  his  pillow,  bit  it  with  his 
teeth,  and  his  face  drew  into  a  grimace  of 
helpless  anguish.  With  ears  painfully  alert 
he  heard  a  church  bell  ring  and  cease,  and 
ring  again,  and  cease  and  ring  again ;  then  a 
chime  of  bells  took  up  the  ringing.  It  was 
the  Angelus,  and  a  bell  far  in  the  distance  of 
the  night  tolled  six.  He  knew  he  had  been  in 
bed  two  hours,  and  he  tried  once  more  to  move 
and  the  tiger's  claws  sunk  into  his  chest.  In 
this  pain  he  suffocated  horribly.  His  heart 
was  pierced — that  was  all  he  could  think  of. 
3  23 


THE    CLOSE    OF    THE   DAY 

Till  eight  o'clock  lie  lay  motionless,  dazed  in 
torture. 

At  nine  o'clock  his  colored  boy  rapped,  got 
for  an  answer  an  inarticulate,  choking  call, 
and,  entering,  found  Durant  with  eyes  closed, 
rigid,  cold  and  damp  with  sweat.  The  boy 
ran  for  Doctor  Ingraham,  an  acquaintance  of 
his  master's. 

"Why,  for  God's  sake,  George,  what  have 
you  been  doing  to  yourself?"  asked  Ingraham, 
in  amiable  surprise,  sitting  down  beside  the 
sick  man.  To  the  monosyllables  that  Durant 
answered  he  put  questions  with  but  slight  re 
sult.  The  sick  man's  condition  seemed  to  par 
alyze  his  organs  of  speech.  The  young 
doctor,  true  to  his  cast  of  mind  and  environ 
ment,  thought  first  of  a  heavy  supper.  He 
kept  asking  Durant  what  he  had  been  drink 
ing,  and  made  the  sick  man  angry.  Durant 
tried  to  explain  that  he  had  drunk  nothing 
but  champagne  for  supper,  and  no  more  than 
he  always  drank.  The  doctor  sat  at  the  bed 
side  a  long  time  and  administered  narcotics ; 
the  pain  eased,  and,  having  corrected  his  first 
24 


THE    HANDWRITING 

impressions  of  the  case,  the  doctor  told  Durant 
he  was  seriously  ill ;  that  his  case  was  one  for 
a  specialist ;  he  suggested  Randolph  Sims. 

Sometime  later,  Seymour,  greatly  alarmed, 
came  up  from  the  office.  Durant,  propped 
among  pillows,  had  recovered  a  measure  of 
his  composure.  They  discussed  again  the 
matter  of  calling  in  a  specialist,  and  it  was 
decided  to  summon  Sims.  For  this  purpose 
Seymour  and  Doctor  Ingraham  went  together 
down-town.  The  noon  sun  was  then  beginning 
to  stream  through  the  west  bow-window,  and 
the  colored  boy  drew  the  shades.  Durant 
heard  the  blowing  of  whistles,  the  striking  of 
clocks  and  the  ringing  of  bells.  He  heard 
again  the  queer  intermittent  ringing  of  one 
deep  bell  followed  by  a  clang  of  chimes,  and 
in  the  waves  of  it  he  fell  asleep.  When  he 
woke  he  was  free  from  pain;  the  shadows 
were  lengthening  in  the  room;  there  were 
voices  in  the  library.  Ingraham,  coming 
in,  told  him  that  Sims  was  in  the  next  room 
and  would  now  examine  him.  Some  mo 
ments  of  preparation  followed,  then  Sims, 
25 


THE    CLOSE    OF   THE   DAY 

clear-faced,  gray-haired,  and  accompanied  by 
a  younger  man  walked  in  and  was  introduced 
to  his  patient.  Even  in  pain  Durant  did  not 
forget  himself.  Struck  by  the  dignity  and 
strength  of  the  man  who  had  been  asked  to 
examine  him,  he  gave  such  directions  as  he 
could  to  make  his  visitor  feel  that  his  reputa 
tion  had  preceded  his  arrival. 

"Will  you  give  Sims  that  leather  chair, 
Bob,"  said  he  to  the  boy.  "Ingraham,  if  you 
will  draw  up  the  shades,  the  doctor  can  see 
better." 

Dr.  Sims,  with  a  laughing  gesture,  put  up 
his  hand.  "Don't  bother  about  the  shades, 
Mr.  Durant,"  he  smiled,  "I  am  blind." 


26 


CHAPTER  III 

DOCTOR  AND   PATIENT 

RANDOLPH  SIMS  had  then  enjoyed  for  many 
years  more  than  local  reputation.  It  was  in 
evitable  that  a  case  like  Durant's  should  come 
under  his  notice,  and  this  acquaintance  in  the 
sick-room  was  to  grow  until  his  counsel  should 
become  for  a  few  months  the  only  definite 
hold  that  Durant  could  lay  on  life.  The  men 
became,  in  a  measure,  friends.  Durant,  better 
sometimes  and  sometimes  worse,  was  suffer 
ing,  Sims  told  him,  from  a  disorder  of  which 
the  pathology  was  obscure. 

"What's  the  common  name  for  if?"  demand 
ed  the  patient  one  day,  harshly. 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  no  common  name  for 

angina  pectoris,"  answered  Dr.  Sims,  resting 

his  head  on  his  hand  as  he  looked  at  Durant 

with  sightless  eyes,  "and  it  persists  many 

27 


THE    CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

times  stubbornly  in  spite  of  all  effort.  You 
must  look  on  it  as  an  infirmity,  Mr.  Durant; 
follow  the  simple  rules  I  have  laid  down  for 
you  and  exercise  patience." 

"Patience?"  roared  Durant.  "I  don't  want 
patience ;  I  want  relief.  A  man's  better  dead 
a  thousand  times  than  alive  with  this  hang 
ing  over  him." 

"Few  of  us  escape  all  physical  ills,"  re 
turned  Dr.  Sims.  "I  thought  when  my  sight 
went  that  my  usefulness  had  gone.  I  was 
forced  at  fifty  to  abandon  my  general  practise 
and  seek  an  entirely  new  field  of  work.  You 
are  not  exceptional  in  suffering ;  merely  com 
ing  to  the  common  lot  of  mortals.  Patience." 

For  six  months  the  admonition  and  example 
of  his  physician  and  counselor,  rather  than 
any  spirit  of  resignation  on  his  own  part, 
steadied  Durant  in  the  earlier  fits  of  his  de 
spair.  The  operations  of  the  big  coffee-house 
at  Wabash  Avenue  and  Randolph  Street  were, 
of  necessity,  curtailed  straightway.  The  fail 
ure  of  the  health  of  George  Durant,  who  was 
practically  the  house,  made  this  obligatory. 
28 


DOCTOR   AND   PATIENT 

For  capital  thus  left  idle,  Durant  was  obliged 
to  look  up  an  outlet,  and  the  system  of  elevated 
roads,  then  taking  shape  in  Chicago,  appeared 
a  feasible  field  for  investment.  The  import 
ing  of  coffees  was  not  discontinued.  First, 
because  of  the  pride  of  George  Durant 
in  his  standing  as  a  merchant;  and  second, 
because,  although  his  operations  were  largely 
to  be  transferred  to  La  Salle  Street,  his  pres 
tige  there  as  an  operator  would  be  greater 
as  George  Durant,  of  Sloan,  Durant  &  Com 
pany,  importers,  than  it  would  be  as  George 
Durant,  speculator.  The  decisive  character  of 
his  operations  in  grain  are  a  part  of  the  his 
tory  of  the  corn  and  wheat  pits,  nor  were  his 
speculations  there  unprofitable ;  it  was  the  col 
lapse  of  the  South  Side  railway,  the  "Alley 
L,"  that  undermined  Duranfs  fortune,  struck 
a  second  deadly  blow  at  his  health,  and  left, 
where  on  Sloan,  Durant  &  Company's  ledgers 
solid  hundreds  of  thousands  had  once  stood, 
only  a  blank.  The  reputation  of  the  house 
hardly  suffered ;  but  it  stood  as  a  great  shell 
of  which  the  kernel  had  been  eaten  out. 
29 


THE    CLOSE    OF   THE    DAY 

What  that  blow  cost  him  none  of  his  friends 
ever  knew.  He  made  no  confidants.  The  kill 
ing  strain  of  the  days  that  saw  his  fortune 
slipping  from  him — the  days  when  none  would 
buy  and  none  could  sell;  when  brokers  went 
hungry  and  the  stock  exchange  was  the  ghastly 
death-in-lif  e  barter  of  desperate  men — were  a 
part  of  him.  Night  after  night  Durant  fought 
in  his  room  the  physical  torture  of  his  disease, 
aggravated  by  the  frightful  load  of  his  mone 
tary  losses.  Night  after  night  he  rose  from  a 
sleepless  pillow,  strangling,  choking,  to  tear 
wild-handed  at  his  neck  and  bare  his  throat 
to  an  insane  thirst  for  air.  Once  the  window 
could  not  be  opened,  and  smothering,  he 
smashed  the  glass  with  his  hand. 

A  man  thrown  continually  up  into  the  light 
of  publicity  becomes  an  object  of  curiosity  to 
little  men.  So  trivial  an  incident  as  the  severe 
cutting  of  Durant's  hand  did  not  escape  com 
ment.  He  was  not  a  man  of  explanations.  He 
explained  nothing,  apologized  for  nothing. 
There  were  men  in  the  grocery  district  whose 
capital  of  anecdotes  centered  almost  com- 
30 


DOCTOR   AND   PATIENT 

pletely  upon  George  Durant;  indeed,  it  was 
always  easy  to  interest  a  buyer  in  a  story 
about  Durant.  When  he  appeared  at  the  of 
fice  with  his  hand  bandaged  it  was  attributed 
to  a  lively  supper.  Not  even  Ingraham,  who 
dressed  the  wound,  knew  how  the  accident 
happened.  Only  Dr.  Sims  knew  that  there 
were  no  more  lively  suppers;  that  George 
Durant  no  longer  drank  champagne;  that 
he  drank  only  the  cup  of  broken  health 
mixed  with  the  gall  of  crushing  monetary 
losses. 

One  night,  late,  Dr.  Sims,  dictating  in  his 
library,  was  interrupted  by  a  sharp  ring.  The 
secretary  answered  the  door.  Durant  wag 
there.  He  had  been  sick  for  three  days.  The 
doctor  had  left  him  at  five  o'clock,  and  it  was 
now  nearly  one.  Durant  entered  unsteadily; 
the  constriction  was  on  him.  He  stood,  hol 
low-eyed,  at  the  mantel  in  front  of  the  doctor. 
The  secretary,  leaving  the  room,  closed  the 
door.  For  a  moment  the  two  men,  whose 
names  were  familiar  above  the  names  of  most 
men  in  medicine  and  in  commerce — the  one 
31 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

distracted,  the  other  blind  —  faced  each 
other. 

"I  thought  every  one  but  me  was  in  bed  by 
this  time,"  said  Sims.  "How  are  you,  my 
friend?"  But  asking,  he  already  knew  from 
the  haggard  voice  and  the  cold  hand  what  an 
swer  to  expect. 

"I  ought  not  to  disturb  you  at  this  hour," 
said  Durant,  speaking  with  slow  effort.  "I 
came  because  I  could  not  stay  away.  I  am  at 
the  jumping-off  place.  The  game's  no  longer 
worth  the  candle.  Unless  you  give  me  relief 
I  shall  end  it." 

"You  have  no  right  to  talk  in  that  way." 

Durant  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"Life,  look  at  it  in  any  way  you  will — the 
best  or  the  worst  of  it — is  a  man's  game :  sui 
cide  is  a  coward's." 

"For  three  nights  I  have  had  no  sleep,"  said 
Durant,  doggedly.  "I  will  have  sleep — one 
way  or  the  other — to-night.  Will  you  give  me 
something  to  relieve  this  pain?" 

"My  dear  Durant,  you  are  under  a  load  of 
narcotics  now  that  would  stagger  ten  ordinary 
32 


DOCTOR   AND   PATIENT 

men.  I  know  what  your  pain  is  physically. 
I  could  conquer  it  if  your  mind  were  normal. ' ' 
"I'm  suffering  the  tortures  of  hell." 
Under  the  shade  of  the  lamp  Dr.  Sims  stud 
ied  a  moment.  He  realized  that  he  had  to  do 
with  desperation.  "Let  me  make  one  more 
effort,"  said  he,  touching  a  call-button. 
"What  I  give  you  now  will  not  act  fast.  I 
must  follow  its  effects.  The  room  off  this  is 
my  downstairs  bedroom." 

"But  I  won't  go  to  bed  in  your  house." 
"You  will  go  to  bed  now  and  here.    It  is  an 
experiment.    If  I  am  to  succeed  you  must  do 
your  part." 

The  secretary  entered.  Dr.  Sims  asked  him 
to  prepare  the  bedroom,  then  to  bring  from 
the  dispensary,  up-stairs,  such  medicines  as 
he  privately  directed.  Durant,  growling,  was 
compelled  to  go  to  the  doctor 's  bed.  The  medi 
cine  was  administered,  the  lights  in  the  library 
turned  low,  the  assistant  sent  to  his  room,  and 
Dr.  Sims,  sitting  in  a  deep  chair  at  Durant's 
bedside,  forced  him  to  compose  himself.  In 
half  an  hour  the  hunted  man  was  sleeping. 
33 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  it  was  day.  At  his 
side,  in  the  library  chair,  Dr.  Sims,  his  face 
wrinkled  with  fatigue,  his  white  hair  tumbled 
and  his  blind  eyes  closed  wearily,  reclined 
asleep.  At  the  first  move  of  Durant  he  woke 
and  put  his  hand  into  the  greeting  that  was 
denied  his  eyes.  Durant  caught  his  fingers. 
"Doctor !"  he  exclaimed,  his  tone  hoarse  from 
the  relaxation  of  rest,  "I  am  a  brute.  You 
ought  to  be  in  this  bed.  It  is  I  that  should  be 
sitting  up  watching  you !" 

"How  do  you  feel?" 

Durant  turned  toward  his  benefactor.  "Like 
living  again." 

"The  distress  passed  somewhat?" 

"It  is  gone !" 

"If  you  feel  like  it,  sponge  lightly  with  al 
cohol  right  here  where  it  is  warm.  When  you 
are  dressed  I  will  be  back.  You  breakfast 
with  me  this  morning." 

Durant  demurred  and  protested.    He  could 

not  get  away,  nor  could  he  bring  himself  to 

consent  to  stay.    He  compromised  at  last  by 

telephoning  his  valet  to  bring  linen  to  him. 

34 


DOCTOR   AND   PATIENT 

At  eight  o'clock  they  went  in  to  breakfast. 
Dr.  Sims,  a  widower,  introduced  Durant  to 
his  sister  Mary,  a  fine-eyed  old  maid  in  spec 
tacles.  "Our  housekeeper,"  he  said.  They 
were  joined  almost  at  once  by  a  girl  of  twenty, 
Katharine  Sims,  the  only  child  of  the  doctor, 
fresh  and  lively  in  a  morning  gown  of  blue.  It 
was  vacation  time,  and  she  was  home  from  the 
East. 

"Your  father  told  me,  I  think,  you  are  at 
Smith?"  suggested  Durant.  To  engage  a  col 
lege  girl  in  any  talk  that  will  hold  her  atten 
tion  for  five  minutes  is  a  feat,  but  it  was  one 
that  Durant  without  apparent  effort  managed. 
Katharine  overflowed  with  life,  and  Durant, 
out  of  the  charm  of  his  reserve,  found  topics 
that  she  could  spend  her  enthusiasm  on  with 
out  dispelling  her  impression  that  she  was  en 
tertaining  him. 

The  men  returned  to  the  library. 

"You  want  to  know  what  I  used  to  put  you 

to  sleep  with!"  said  the  doctor.    "Nothing  in 

drugs ;  you  were  full  of  drugs.    I  used  your 

imagination  and  my  persuasion.    You  were 

35 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

exhausted  and  I  composed  you.  Your  mental 
condition  frightened  me  last  night,  Durant. 
1  speak  plainly.  I  dread  facing  a  man  that 
is  ready  to  drop  his  part ;  to  give  way  to  any 
misfortune,  I  care  not  what — physical  pain 
or  mental  agony.  I  speak  to  you  now  because 
you  may  find  yourself  in  such  another  crisis 
when  I  can  not  be  near.  Since  I  have  been 
treating  you,  first  and  last,  I  have  given  you 
everything  in  drugs  but  one — the  surest  and 
deadliest.  It  will  put  you  to  sleep  when  you 
suffer  as  you  suffered  last  night;  but,  for 
what  it  gives  you,  it  will  take  a  mortgage  for 
time  and  eternity  on  your  will  and  your  soul. 
How  much  better  it  is  than  the  pistol  I  don't 
know.  As  I  grow  older  I  make  less  distinc 
tion  between  them.  In  some  instances  that  I 
have  known,  the  pistol,  bluntly  at  the  start, 
would  have  been  better.  But  I  shrink  from 
thinking  of  a  bullet  for  a  man  under  forty,  of 
such  capabilities  as  yours.  I  shall  not  de 
ceive  you — in  the  face  of  such  an  infirmity  of 
yours  I  am  helpless.  All  my  reputation,  all 
my  art,  comes  once  in  ten  thousand  times 
36 


DOCTOR   AND   PATIENT 

against  such  a  case,  and  I  am  beaten.  I  give 
you  now,  when  you  reach  the  condition  you 
reached  last  night,  your  choice.  When  it 
comes  to  the  pistol,  remember,  you  can  bridge 
over  once  with  morphine.  But  when  you  do 
so,  recollect  this — in  the  end  it  will  beat  you. 
Never  make  up  your  mind  that  your  will 
power  or  any  man's,  can  stand  against  mor 
phine.  It  will  make  your  will  its  will :  don't 
forget  it.  Here  is  a  little  bottle  of  morphine 
pellets  for  you,  my  dear  fellow;  I  give 
them  to  you  not  knowing  but  that  sometime 
you  will  curse  me,  curse  my  memory,  curse 
the  day  you  ever  met  me.  "When  it  comes  to 
the  pistol  or  this,  this  drug  will  bridge  you 
over — once,  twice,  possibly  three  times. 
Then,  if  you  take  it  again,  you  are  gone — 
body  and  soul.  When  that  time  comes  use  the 
pistol  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  for  the 
game  is  played." 

Durant  took  the  tiny  vial.     The  pellets 

clashed   smoothly  in  the  thin   glass    as  he 

twirled  them  in  his  big  fingers.     As    most 

men  hear  of   it,  he  had  heard  of  morphine. 

37 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

But  to  hear  of  morphine  is  one  thing ;  to 
face  it  another.  Durant  faced  it.  He  slipped 
the  bottle  into  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"Doctor,  you  had  better  ride  down-town 
with  me.  The  carriage  will  be  here  in  a  few 
minutes;  I'll  leave  you  at  your  office.  This 
will  be  your  last  chance  behind  the  roans.  I 
shall  be  away  a  good  deal  this  winter,  and 
I've  sold  my  horses.  I'm  going  to  close  my 
stables." 

Plans  for  financing  the  stranded  elevated 
system,  in  which  Durant  was  then  the  largest 
individual  stockholder,  kept  him  in  New  York 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  winter  and  the  fol 
lowing  spring.  Telegrams  passed  oftener 
than  letters  between  him  and  Seymour,  but 
one  day,  called  up  on  long-distance  telephone, 
he  was  told  by  the  Chicago  office  that  the  city 
ticker  announced  the  death  of  Dr.  Sims.  There 
were  other  matters  that  Seymour  wished  to 
communicate;  Durant  heard  no  more.  He 
hung  the  receiver  on  the  hook,  turned  from  the 
booth  like  a  wounded  man  and  walked  out 
and  down  Fifth  Avenue.  That  night  he  took 
38 


DOCTOR   AND   PATIENT 

the  train  for  Chicago.  On  the  second  morn 
ing  he  stood  in  the  little  bedroom  off  the 
library  beside  his  dead  counselor. 

The  funeral  arrangements  completed,  and 
in  charge  of  brother  physicians,  appeared  to 
leave  no  place  in  which  George  Durant  could  be 
of  use.  He  sent  words  of  sympathy  by  the  doc 
tor's  secretary  to  the  sister  and  the  daughter, 
up-stairs,  and  in  the  afternoon  took  his  place 
silently  among  the  many  strangers  to  whom 
this  man  had  been  what  he  had  been  to  him. 
He  took  the  long  carriage  ride  to  the  depot, 
the  train  to  Rose  Hill,  and  entered  for  the 
first  time  the  gates  of  a  Chicago  cemetery. 
The  ceremonies  seemed  very  distant  to  him. 
Only  once,  as  the  active  pall-bearers,  six 
young  doctors,  lowered  the  coffin  into  the 
grave,  he  started  at  a  sob  from  the  veiled 
mourners.  Returning,  he  sat  in  the  car  alone. 
About  him  were  the  flower  of  the  medical  pro 
fession  of  Chicago,  so  many  of  them  young 
men,  he  noticed,  and  as  he  considered  them, 
brimming  with  the  fulness  of  the  activities 
of  life,  he  felt  a  strange  loneliness.  He  asked 
4  39 


THE    CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

himself  for  the  first  time  what  he  had  made  of 
life  that  the  world  should  put  him  by  fortune 
and  by  opportunity  above  men  and  workers 
like  these. 


40 


CHAPTER  IV 
A  PHYSICIAN'S  DAUGHTER 

To  the  girl  of  gentle  birth  the  problem  of 
earning  a  living  may  not  be  peculiarly  an 
American  one:  yet  in  its  American  aspects 
such  a  problem  is  peculiarly  our  own.  The 
American  girl  is  free  born.  There  are  classes 
below  her,  but  above  her  there  is  no  class. 
Educated,  and  educated  always  to  ideals — a 
trifle  vague,  perhaps;  possibly  somewhat  un 
sound — she  comes  to  us  as  she  is,  and  as  they 
are,  a  part  of  us — we  can  put  away  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other. 

At  eighteen,  twenty,  twenty-two,  a  queen 
uncrowned,  such  a  girl  stands  suddenly 
forth  reaching  for  her  kingdom.  To  all  but 
the  dowerless  child  there  is  a  pathos  in  the 
sunrise  of  such  a  day  in  her  life ;  but  to  her  the 
41 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

moment  is  too  much  fiilled  with  doubt  and 
cruel  necessity  to  admit  of  sentiment. 

The  death  of  Dr.  Sims  left  his  daughter  and 
his  maiden  sister  together  without  immediate 
relatives.  Dr.  Sims  had  a  predilection  for  in 
vestment  in  real  estate,  and  that  in  its  dread- 
est  form,  residence  property.  Capitalists 
could  have  told  him  that  flats  are  not,  strictly 
speaking,  an  investment,  but  a  luxury.  This 
was  reserved  for  his  sister  and  for  Katharine 
Sims  to  learn  in  fruitless  tears  after  losing 
their  protector. 

Two  or  three  times  during  the  year  that 
followed  the  death  of  the  doctor,  Durant 
found  among  his  letters,  directed  in  a  feminine 
hand,  enclosures  of  concert  programs.  They 
passed  before  him  with  the  slight  considera 
tion  that  busy  men  give  the  unimportant  mat 
ters  that  cumber  the  mail ;  but  these  programs 
were  sent  by  Katharine  Sims.  Durant  had 
nighwell  forgotten  her  existence  when  one 
day  her  card  was  brought  into  the  office.  It 
was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

"I  fear  you  hardly  remember  me,  Mr.  Du- 
42 


A  PHYSICIAN'S   DAUGHTER 

rant?"  said  she,  advancing  with  smiling  un 
certainty  as  he  rose  from  his  chair. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  remember  you  very 
well,"  he  replied,  easily.  "I  breakfasted  once 
at  your  father's  house.  You  were  home  at  the 
time  from  school." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  brightening  with  re 
lief,  "you  have  a  good  memory." 

"For  some  things ;  be  seated." 

She  was  to  be  further  surprised  by  his  ask 
ing  after  her  aunt.  Nor  did  he  content  him 
self  with  formal  inquiries,  but  launched 
straight  into  definite  remembrances  of  her 
father's  kindness  to  him  and  of  the  good  name 
he  had  left  in  Chicago. 

The  almost  painful  timidity  that  marked 
her  manner  on  entering  fled  her  face  like 
a  cloud  as  he  looked  calmly  at  her  and  spoke 
so  frank  words.  When  her  confusion  had 
passed  and  she  had  thanked  him,  she  ran 
hurriedly  ahead  to  what  was  on  her  mind. 

"No  doubt  you  are  surprised  to  have  me  call 
on  you  in  this  way,  but  I  have  a  favor  to  ask. 
Papa's  affairs  were  in  such  shape  at  the  time 
43 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

of  his  death,"  said  she,  with  a  freedom  made 
easier  by  the  atmosphere  he  had  put  about 
her,  "that  it  became  necessary  for  me  to  rely 
largely  on  my  own  efforts.  Not  that  I  have 
the  least  talent  in  the  world  for  business ;  but 
I  have  always  been  able  to  sing,  and,  since 
Aunt  Mary  and  I  have  been  together,  I  have 
turned  my  voice  to  such  account  as  I  could." 

"What  is  your  voice?"  asked  Durant,  with 
the  courteous  interest  that  one  expresses 
whether  quite  sincere  or  not. 

"Soprano.  For  the  last  year  I  have  been 
singing  at  the  Apostles'  Memorial  Church; 
besides  that  I  have  had  some  concert  work. 
What  I  am  anxious  to  do  now,  even  though  it 
looks  ambitious,  is  to  get  into  light  opera  work. 
That's  why  I  have  ventured  to  call  on  you. 
I  know,"  she  added,  with  a  deprecating  little 
laugh,  "that  you  are  not  a  manager,  but  I  used 
to  hear  papa  speak  often  of  your  wide  ac 
quaintance  with  professional  people  and  sing 
ers,  and  I  wanted  to  ask  whether  you  could 
tell  me  something  about  how  they  get  started." 

Durant,  leaning  half  back  in  his  chair,  gazed 
44 


A  PHYSICIAN'S   DAUGHTER 

at  her  in  the  mildly  curious  manner  natural 
to  him  when  mentally  at  repose.  He  did  not 
at  once  reply  when  she  had  ceased  speaking, 
and  she  was  conscious  of  a  slight  tremor  of 
embarrassment  at  what  appeared  his  indiffer 
ence.  "Are  you  quite  sure,"  he  asked,  pres 
ently,  "that  you  are  adapted  for  stage  work?" 

"Indeed,  I  am  not.  The  idea  has  come  more 
from  the  suggestions  of  others.  My  teachers 
have  told  me  several  times  I  ought  to  try  it," 
she  returned.  "They  seemed  to  think  I  have 
something  of  a  dramatic  turn,  though  I  know 
it  appears  most  improbable.  Of  course,  it 
would  have  to  be  an  experiment ;  one  I  should 
shrink  from  if  I  had  not  learned  to  face  almost 
everything  since  I  have  been  singing." 

"Are  you  satisfied,"  he  asked  again,  "that 
opera  is  the  best  field  for  you  ?" 

She  smoothed  her  glove  with  some  hesita 
tion.  "Really,  I  am  not  very  sure  of  anything, 
Mr.  Durant,  except  that  the  work  pays  well. 
I  imagine  it  would  not  be  uncongenial." 

In  the  leisurely  manner  that  borders  closely 
on  preoccupation  he  asked  other  questions 
45 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

concerning  her  life,  what  she  had  done  and 
her  ambitions,  and  she  answered.  He  reverted 
again  with  something  of  abruptness  to  her 
father,  and  once  asked  bluntly  whether  she 
knew  what  obligations  her  father's  kindness 
and  counsel  had  placed  him  under.  She  left 
with  his  suggestion  that  he  should  come  and 
hear  her  sing,  and  with  a  promise  that  if  it 
seemed  best  he  would  take  up  the  matter  of  her 
going  on  the  stage  and  advise  her  in  so  far  as 
he  could. 

It  was  not  until  after  dinner  in  the  evening 
that  Durant  again  gave  the  subject  thought, 
but  her  coming  had  brought  up  strangely  her 
father's  image  and  taken  Durant  back  to  the 
days  when  his  health  and  affairs  were  at  the 
blackest. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  not  to  feel  more 
than  a  passing  interest  in  the  anxieties  of  this 
daughter  of  his  dead  friend.  For  that  matter, 
as  she  had  sat  before  him  in  his  office  she  was  a 
woman  that  might  awaken  any  one's  interest. 
As  the  experienced  man  who  does  not  express 
his  opinions,  he  had  been  careful  to  say  little 
46 


A   PHYSICIAN'S   DAUGHTER 

to  her  concerning  what  her  idea  of  going  on 
the  stage  meant  to  one  who  so  well  knew  the 
life ;  who  had  not  only  opened  but  closed  the 
book  of  acquaintance  with  its  worse  side. 
Pondering  the  situation  with  himself,  bringing 
to  his  mind  the  picture  of  Katharine  Sims  as 
she  sat  before  him  in  his  office,  her  veil  raised, 
her  face  quick  with  youthful  acuteness  and  ap 
peal,  the  thought  of  wh,at  she  aspired  to 
seemed  abhorrent;  nor  was  he  of  the  kind  to 
try  to  bring  himself  to  view  the  matter  in 
milder  light.  She  was  like  one  who  asks  to 
open  a  book  the  remembrances  of  whose  pages 
has  not  been  altogether  inspiring.  One  point 
he  had  been  careful  to  cover  in  the  afternoon 
before  she  went  away:  that  she  should  call 
no  more  at  the  office  on  him,  but  that  to  the 
extent  he  could  in  any  way  help  her  he  should 
do  the  calling  on  her. 

Within  a  week  he  made  an  opportunity  to 
visit  her  at  her  number  on  Dearborn  Avenue. 
It  was  a  small  flat  building  of  good  appoint 
ments,  well  north.  Miss  Mary  Sims,  her  aunt, 
had  the  second  floor  apartments. 
47 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

Aunt  Mary,  with  her  fine  little  eyes  and  her 
gold  spectacles,  met  Durant  at  the  door  in 
the  affectionate  warmth  of  one  who  is  both 
Southern  and  in  need  of  friends.  Her  caller 
was  calculated  to  revive  in  her  the  forgotten 
graces  of  Virginia  days.  If  he  was  inclined 
to  quiet  while  seated  in  the  front  room  wait 
ing  for  Katherine,  it  was  the  greater  chance 
for  Aunt  Mary's  heart  to  overflow  with  the 
effort  of  welcome.  It  was  enough  to  have  so 
large  and  so  distinguished  a  man  to  sit  before 
and  to  talk  at,  while  he  looked  somewhat  ab 
sently  at  the  asbestos  twig  that  Aunt  Mary 
had  lighted  in  the  futile  grate  in  honor  of  his 
coming.  The  room  was  simply  furnished  in 
the  dry-goods  furniture  style,  which  made  it 
embarrassing  for  a  full-sized  man  to  sit  down 
anywhere.  Happily,  among  the  chairs  was 
one  of  the  doctor's  own,  saved  from  earlier 
wrecks,  and  to  this  Durant  had  turned  with 
confidence. 

Aunt  Mary  could  not  disabuse  herself  of  the 
idea  that  his  coming  to  their  cramped  quarters 
meant  a  change  in  their  misfortunes,  and  as 
48 


A   PHYSICIAN'S   DAUGHTER 

she  eyed  in  profile  what  she  called  Durant's 
noble  face,  her  affections,  always  lively,  over 
flowed.  When  Katharine  swept  in,  tall  and 
eager  with  winning  hope,  Aunt  Mary,  sitting 
a  bit  out  of  the  talk,  mildly  and  imperceptibly 
wept.  Something  in  the  absolute  simplicity 
of  Durant's  black  and  gray  hair  and  the 
straightforwardness  of  his  mustache  appealed 
too  strongly. 

The  conversation  turned  to  music;  Durant 
asked  Katharine  to  sing.  With  hardly  a  trace 
of  nervousness  she  began  with  The  Rosary, 
and  followed  with  If  I  were  Gardener  of  the 
Skies  and  a  Schumann  song.  It  was  Aunt 
Mary's  heart  alone  that  thumped  during  the 
trial. 

"I  like  your  voice,"  said  Durant,  as  she  fin 
ished.  "Will  you  let  me  hear  some  of  your 
exercises  ?"  She  responded,  and  the  exercises 
went  even  better. 

"Certainly,  you  have  voice,  Miss  Sims — - 
may  I  call  you  Miss  Katharine !" 

"Oh,  yes,  please." 

"What  you  tell  me  of  your  teachers'  opin- 
49 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

ions  does  not  surprise  me.  With  such  a  natu 
ral  gift  as  yours — and  you  have  worked,  I 
see — there  need  be  no  question  of  ultimate 
success."  As  she  left  the  piano  he  shifted 
his  position  so  he  could  look  directly  at  her. 
"The  only  question  is  how  to  use  your  talent 
to  the  best  advantage.  I  incline  to  think," 
he  added,  turning  to  Aunt  Mary,  who  jumped 
suddenly  as  his  eyes  fell  on  her,  "that  a  young 
woman  that  makes  her  own  way  should  have 
the  lion's  share  of  the  earnings.  You  incline 
toward  the  opera?"  he  said,  tentatively,  to 
Katharine. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"The  road  isn't  altogether  an  attractive  one 
— it  is  rougher  than  you  have  any  idea  of, 
probably.  It  seems  to  me — at  the  moment — 
that  the  field  you  are  already  in  is  immensely 
preferable;  I  mean  concert  work — oratorio 
when  it  comes  along — drawing-room  work 
and  that  kind  of  thing." 

"But  there  is  so  little  to  be  earned  in  that 
way,  Mr.  Durant." 

50 


A   PHYSICIAN'S   DAUGHTER 

"On  the  contrary,  Wallace  Hamilton,  Mrs. 
Hocknell " 

"But  they  are  so  celebrated  and  well 
known." 

* '  When  I  first  met  them,  possibly  less  known 
than  yon." 

Durant  spent  the  evening,  his  talk  bearing 
always  in  the  same  direction — away  from  a 
stage  career  for  Katharine.  It  was  done  so 
evenly  there  was  hardly  a  chance  for  resent 
ment,  but  when  he  had  gone  the  trend  of  his 
advice  was  plainer,  and  Katharine  felt  disap 
pointment  and  restiveness  under  the  recollec 
tion.  Within  a  week  he  called  again  fortified 
with  authorities.  Wallace  Hamilton,  the 
tenor,  he  quoted  as  agreeing  with  his  view 
of  a  career  for  a  young  Chicago  singer,  and 
he  dwelt  again  with  quiet  emphasis  on  the  ad 
vantages  of  the  non-dramatic  path. 

Katharine  was  slightly  ill  at  ease  while  he 
spoke.  His  bluntness,  sincerely  friendly,  car 
ried  such  a  weight  of  sound  argument  that  she 
trembled  for  its  effects  on  Aunt  Mary,  and 
51 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

under  the  pressure  confessed  to  a  step  already 
taken. 

"You  have  been  so  kind,  Mr.  Durant,"  she 
began,  "in  interesting  yourself  in  my  work 
that  I  am  almost  afraid  to  acknowledge — I 
have  crossed  the  Rubicon  already.  I've  en 
gaged  to  go  into  the  chorus  of  the  DeTamble 
Company.  You  know  they  are  to  be  at  the 
Caxton  all  winter,  and  there  won't  be  any 
traveling,  so  I  thought  if  I  were  going  to  make 
a  trial  this  would  be  a  good  chance,  don't  you 
think  so  f " 

There  was  a  moment  of  embarrassment  all 
round.  Durant  contented  himself  with  ask 
ing  who  the  manager  of  the  DeTamble  Com 
pany  was. 

"Mr.  Stein.  He's  very  pleasant  indeed.  Do 
you  know  him?" 

"Slightly." 

"I  could  never  have  consented,"  interposed 
Aunt  Mary,  fearfully,  "if  it  were  not  that 
there  will  be  no  traveling." 

"Have  you  heard  of  the  company,  Mr.  Du 
rant  f"  asked  Katharine,  pleadingly. 
52 


A  PHYSICIAN'S   DAUGHTER 

"No." 

"But  you  will  hear  of  them  now  that  I'm  to 
carry  a  torch  in  the  chorus,  won't  you?  I  sup 
pose  I  shall  set  fire  to  the  scenery  the  very  first 
night." 


53 


IN  THE   CHORUS 

MATTERS  in  New  York  took  Durant  East 
within  the  week,  and  it  was  December  when 
he  returned  to  Chicago.  In  the  interval  he 
had  seen  or  heard  nothing  of  Katharine  Sims. 
One  night,  after  a  dinner  at  the  Auditorium 
with  the  reorganization  committee  of  his  ele 
vated  road,  he  found  himself  in  front  of  the 
Caxton  Theater  and  thought  of  his  prote'ge'e. 
He  went  in  and  bought  a  chair  in  the 
rear  of  the  parquet.  It  was  at  the  moment 
of  an  ensemble,  and  in  the  mass  of  people  that 
crowded  the  stage,  the  dash  of  the  music,  the 
lively  efforts  of  the  director,  and  the  confused 
chase  of  the  chorus  about  the  principals,  he 
was  at  a  loss  for  some  moments  to  identify 
Katharine  Sims.  When  at  length  he  recog- 
54 


IN   THE   CHORUS 

nized  her  among  the  chorus  girls  he  was  sur 
prised  to  find  her  so  slight  in  her  make-up, 
although  among  the  tallest  of  the  chorus. 
Such  scenes  as  that  in  which  she  was  taking 
part  were  so  familiar  to  him  that  he  could 
have  taken  the  leader's  baton  without  diffi 
culty  himself  and  carried  the  finale  to  its  close. 
He  noted,  mechanically,  the  precision  of  the 
principals,  the  attack  of  the  chorus,  and  the 
slighter  evidences  of  a  presentation  well  in 
hand.  But  his  thoughts  centered  on  one  in 
whom  he  felt  an  interest,  and,  critical  as  his 
eye  had  long  become,  her  carriage  and  manner 
were  not  displeasing.  The  applause  and  the 
recalls  at  the  close  of  the  act,  the  acknowledg 
ments  of  the  singers,  the  restful  sigh  that  went 
over  the  house  when  the  curtain  hid  the  last  of 
the  courtesies,  the  lights  rising  upon  the  audi 
ence,  were  all  of  a  character  to  reconcile  him  to 
her  situation. 

A  few  nights  afterward  Durant,  entertain 
ing  some  New  York  friends  at  the  Athletic 
Club,  was  accosted  by  little  Stein,  the  mana 
ger. 

5  55 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Hello,  Georgie;  how?" 

"Hello,  Stein." 

"I  seen  you  down  to  our  show  the  other 
night." 

"Stein,  where's  Clara  Nightingale?" 

"She's  in  Paris,"  answered  Stein,  with  an 
upward  roll  of  his  eyes  and  tone. 

"You  married  her,  didn't  you?" 

"Well— yes." 

"Then  you  deserted  her?" 

"No,  not  by  a " 

"Don't  lie." 

"Look  here " 

"I  know  all  about  it." 

Struck  momentarily  dumb,  the  manager 
swelled  with  rage.  "Stein,"  drawled  Durant, 
"you're  beginning  well.  I  thought  once  you 
were  going  to  be  half  decent.  You  look  now 
like  a  damned  scoundrel ;  you  are  one !" 

Stein  swore  a  frightful  oath.  "You're  a 
fine  fellow,  turn't  preacher  on  women,  you 
are;  ain't  you?"  he  choked. 

"I  never  married  a  woman  to  rob  her,  Stein. 
You  robbed  your  wife  to  buy  an  interest  in 
56 


IN   THE   CHORUS 

this  DeTamble  Company."  Durant  pointed 
to  a  large  pearl  on  his  scarf.  "You  stole  her 
jewelry,  did  you?" 

"I  paid  eighteen  hundred  for  that  pearl!" 
shrieked  Stein,  tapping  his  breast  like  a  mad 
man. 

"That's  a  good  deal  more  than  I  paid  for  it, 
and  I  gave  it  to  Clara,  myself."  , 

"I  bought  'at  pearl  in  San  Francisco  be 
fore  I  ever  saw  Clara  Nightingale  or  you, 
e'd'er!" 

"That's  a  fair  issue.  Come  over  here  and 
tell  your  story  to  the  men,"  suggested  Durant, 
"I'll  tell  mine." 

With  an  imprecation  the  enraged  manager 
scuttled  away.  He  was  small  and  bandy 
legged,  with  keen,  dark  eyes,  set  close.  Stein 
always  looked  up,  with  his  head  cocked  to  one 
side,  and  from  the  circular  swing  of  his  walk 
and  the  upward  reach  of  his  arms  he  bore 
the  name  of  Spider. 

Two  days  afterward  Durant,  walking  up 
State  Street,  was  greeted  by  Aunt  Mary  Sims. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Durant,"  she  said,  impulsively, 
57 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Katharine  has  lost  her  position.  Isn't  it  too 
bad — she  is  so  worried  about  it." 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  She  must  not 
be  discouraged.  Those  things  happen  all  the 
time.  I  dropped  in  to  see  her  one  night,  and 
she  did  very  well." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Durant,  if  you  would  come  and 
see  her  and  talk  to  her  a  little !" 

"Certainly,  I  will." 

Katharine  brooded  in  a  state  of  eclipse — 
confidence  and  gaiety  extinguished,  plunged 
in  the  gloom  of  a  first  discharge. 

Then  came  Durant,  sat  crossed-legged  in 
her  father's  chair,  spoke  but  a  few  words,  and 
already  the  clouds  lightened.  Katharine  told 
in  a  crushed  way  how  the  stage-manager, 
Axtell,  had  discharged  her,  and  how  she  had 
asked  for  a  reason,  and  he  had  refused 
to  give  any.  She  could  not  add  the  humiliat 
ing  details  of  how  he  had  cursed  when  she 
insisted  on  knowing;  some  bitterness  we  re 
serve  to  our  own  hearts. 

"I  thought,  Mr.  Durant,"  suggested  Aunt 
Mary,  timidly,  "that  perhaps  you  could  find 
58 


IN   THE   CHORUS 

out  from  Mr.  Stein  what  the  reason  was.  I 
don't  think  he  would  allow  such  a  thing  if  he 
knew  it.  Only  the  night  before,  Mr.  Axtell 
himself  complimented  Katharine  on  her 
work " 

Durant  might  have  preferred  to  make  no 
comment,  but  the  two  women  waited  in  the 
hope  that  he  would  say  something. 

"I  don't  know  Mr.  Stein  very  well." 

"He  knows  you,"  ventured  Aunt  Mary,  "for 
when  Katharine  was  making  her  engagement 
I  was  with  her  and  I  happened  to  say  I  knew 
you " 

"You  said  you  knew  me  f ' 

"I  told  him  you  wanted  her  to  go  into  ora 
torio  work." 

"Did  you?" 

"Yes." 

"He  must  have  been  surprised." 

"He  was  a  little,"  admitted  Aunt  Mary. 
"But  he  spoke  so  highly  of  you  and  said  he 
knew  you  very  well." 

"Some  years  ago.  Stein  would  not  discredit 
his  stage-manager  now  by  interfering,"  Du- 
59 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

rant  went  on,  "even  if  he  knew  Axtell  were 
wrong,"  he  continued,  quite  understanding 
that  Katharine  had  been  discharged  to  spite 
him.  "It's  not  worth  while  fussing  about. 
Sha'n't  we  see  whether  something  else  can  be 
done?  Are  you  resolved  to  stick  to  opera, 
Miss  Katharine?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Durant,"  trembled  Katharine. 
"Yes."  She  looked  a  frail  girl  because  tall 
and  slender ;  but  in  frailness  may  lie  stubborn 
ness  invincible. 

Soon  afterward,  Durant  called  on  Mabel 
Anthony. 

"It's  mighty  good  to  see  you  again,"  she 
exclaimed,  pushing  back  the  papers  on  her 
desk.  "You  have  dropped  completely  away 
from  your  friends — and  enemies — haven't 
you!  Now,  what  have  you  come  to  see  me 
for?  I  know  you've  got  a  big  heart,  but  it's 
not  that  that's  brought  you ;  is  it  ?" 

Durant  smiled,  which  was  not  common  for 
him.  "No.  You're  right.  I  want  something. 
I  want  a  place  in  DeVinne's  Company  for  a 
chorus  girl." 

60 


IN   THE   CHORUS 

"DeVinne'sf 

"Yes." 

Mabel  paused.  "It  would  be  a  heap  easier 
to  put  her  in  the  Tamble  troupe  over  at  the 
Caxton." 

"DeVinne's  is  a  better  crowd.  You  know 
Lawrence." 

"They  don't  pay  any  more  money." 

"But  I  want  her  with  good  people." 

"Oh,  you  do.  All  right.  Now,  I'll  be  hon 
est.  I  don't  know  but  that  I'm  used  up  over 
there.  I've  had  one  or  two  favors " 

"This  girl  can  sing." 

"That  wouldn't  make  much  difference  with 
Stein;  but  it  would  make  a  heap  with  Law 
rence,"  reflected  Mabel.  "All  right.  I'll  see. 
Come  again,  Saturday,  can  you?"  Then,  not 
quite  able  to  extinguish  femininity,  she  ad 
ded,  "Who  is  she?" 

He  told  her  the  incident  of  his  acquaintance 
with  Katharine  Sims ;  something  about  Kath 
arine  herself. 

"Why,  how  lovely.  It's  awfully  good  of  you 
to  do  something  for  her,"  declared  Mabel  An- 
61 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

thony.  "Well,  I'll  help,  too.  But  don't  tell 
her,  for  she  would  bother  me,  and  I'm  both 
ered  enough." 

"Lawrence  may  have  to  be  pounded  pretty 
hard ;  he 's  a  bull-headed  fellow, ' '  Durant  went 
on.  "I'd  better  see  him  first  about  her.  Then, 
if  you  will  try  him  afterward,  I  think  between 
us  we  can  land  him."  He  rose  to  go. 

Mabel  Anthony  looked  at  him,  smiling  from 
under  her  gray  hair.  "Hadn't  you  better  leave 
the  whole  thing  to  me?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  do  all  the  work." 

"Oh,  that's  nothing.  Did  you  really  mean 
all  you  said  about  trying  to  keep  her  off  the 
stage?" 

"Yes.    Why?" 

She  looked  openly  at  him.  "Might  not  your 
interest  in  the  matter  of  getting  her  on  the 
stage  possibly  be  misconstrued?"  Then,  after 
a  pause,  "You  know  it's  thin  ice  for  young 
women  behind  the  footlights,"  she  added. 
"Oh,  you're  getting  angry." 

"No,  I'm  not.   I  didn't  think  of  it,  that's  all." 

"Not  that/  should  misunderstand,"  she  went 
62 


IN   THE   CHORUS 

on.  "You  know  that."  She  took  a  step  nearer 
him  and  looked  up  with  the  sweetest,  roguery 
smile.  "You  know  I'm  one  that  doesn't  believe 
the  devil  nearly  so  black  as  he's  painted ;  but 
such  a  young  girl  as  you're  going  to  help — 
and  in  the  way  you  want  to  help  her — should 
hardly  make  her  initial  appearance  under  the 
patronage  of  quite  so  unconventional  and 
widely  known  a  bachelor  as  my  friend  Mr.  Du- 
rant,  should  she?" 

Why  it  cut  him  he  tried  vainly  that  night  to 
make  clear  to  himself.  He  told  Miss  Anthony 
at  once  that  she  was  right;  he  begged  her  to 
take  the  whole  thing  in  hand;  she  said  she 
would.  But  in  the  evening,  when  the  feeling 
came  upon  him  that  came  now  sometimes  with 
the  close  of  the  day,  he  felt  humiliated,  and 
sat  by  his  fire  a  long  time  alone. 

Miss  Anthony  wrote  almost  within  a  week. 

"If  she  can  sing  send  her  down  to  Lawrence. 
If  she  can't,  it  won't  do  any  good.  Tell  her  to 
quote  no  names ;  he  will  know  her.  Provided 
you  are  really  not  angry,  come  again. 

"M.  A. 

"P.  S. — Come  anyway." 
63 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

Durant  wrote  to  Katharine.  Aunt  Mary 
and  she  received  the  letter  together.  There 
were  tremors  of  expectation  when  they  opened 
it,  and  tears  of  hope  when  they  had  read. 
"It  is  so  hard  to  get  into  one  of  Mr.  Lawrence's 
companies,"  sobbed  Katharine,  softly,  recov 
ering.  "But,  oh,  if  I  can  get  a  start  there, 
Aunt  Mary,  it  will  be  our  fortune.  I'm  as  sure 
of  it  as  I  live." 

One  day  a  note  came  to  Durant  from  Kath 
arine — the  words  penned  in  startling  size, 
aquiver  with  excitement.  Lawrence  had  given 
her  a  place  right  away,  and  she  was  in  the 
sopranos  at  the  same  salary  she  had  received 
at  the  Caxton,  and  liked  her  surroundings  so 
much  better.  Would  not  Mr.  Durant  gratify 
herself  and  her  aunt  ever  so  much  by  coming 
for  dinner  on  Sunday? 

The  note  reached  him  in  New  York,  too  late 
even  to  send  a  regret,  and  Aunt  Mary's  un 
usual  leg  of  lamb  went  to  the  cold  for  several 
days.  However,  in  time,  it  all  came  in  at  the 
late  night  luncheons  that  Katharine  had  begun 
on,  for  Lawrence — who  seemed  sorely  disap- 
64 


IN   THE   CHOKUS 

pointed  at  being  compelled  by  her  voice  to  hire 
her — told  her  also  to  eat ;  that  to  sing,  women 
must  eat.  Katharine  Sims  has  recently  said 
that  this,  if  not  the  first  lesson,  was  by  far  the 
first  in  importance  of  all  the  stage  lessons  she 
ever  learned. 

Durant  wrote  from  New  York;  later  he 
called  to  express  his  acknowledgments  and  to 
hear  how  Katharine's  affairs  progressed.  She 
was  genuinely  happy  over  her  prospects. 

"And  I  am  learning  to  dance,  Mr.  Durant," 
said  Katharine,  after  she  had  told  everything 
else  she  could  think  of,  and  she  thought  of  a 
great  deal.  "I  never  could  dance.  But  there's 
a  young  girl  in  the  altos  that  can  dance  better 
than  she  can  sing,"  Katharine  laughed.  "So 
I'm  teaching  her  singing  and  we're  helping 
each  other.  Isn't  that  sensible?"  Katharine 
desired  above  all  things  to  be  esteemed  sensi 
ble.  And  Durant,  begining  to  laugh  with  the 
quietness  of  big  men,  rolled  his  eyes  in  some 
thing  like  the  old  way.  "Very  sensible,"  he 
said. 

Every  time  he  saw  her  it  was  something 
65 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

new.  She  drank  to  the  full  the  cup  of  stage 
excitement — and,  of  all,  what  cup  is  headier? 
So  fast  did  she  grow  that  before  he  reached 
the  Calumet  Opera-House  Katharine  had 
been  promoted;  but  that  he  learned  only  by 
going  after  several  weeks  to  see  Lawrence's 
production  of  Erminie. 


66 


THE   MIKADO   COSTUME 

AUNT  MARY  SIMS  was  not  one  to  forget  a 
dinner  planned,  even  in  the  lapse  of  months. 
The  dinner  for  Mr.  Durant,  spoiled  by  his 
absence  in  New  York,  lay  an  indigestion  on 
her  mind  until  he  was  brought  to  bar  on  an 
April  Sunday  and  made  to  eat.  The  dining- 
room,  no  bigger  than  an  old-fashioned  market 
basket,  was  at  least  sunny  and  warm  in  wel 
come,  when  George  Durant  sat  down  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  Aunt  Mary  served  duck,  and 
the  tiny  bone-handled  carving  set  was  laid  at 
Mr.  Durant's  place.  The  beaming  of  her  face 
asked  more  delicately  than  words  that  he 
carve.  Katharine,  loose-haired,  white  hands 
folded,  her  face  already  showing  the  content 
of  regular  endeavor,  sat  gracefully  between 
the  two,  and,  unobserved,  admired  the  round- 
67 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

ing  breast  of  Durant's  coat  as  lie  went  straight 
to  the  joints  of  the  bird  and,  with  a  relish  of 
real  interest,  filled  and  handed  the  plates. 

When  he  stood  at  the  door  Katharine  had 
met  him  in  a  dress  of  brown,  as  soft  as  a 
smile.  She  had  not  much  money  for  dresses. 
Out  of  her  salary  she  had  lessons  in  acting 
to  pay  for,  but  she  contrived,  and  her  talk 
was  so  intense  with  incident  and  excitement 
and  plan  that  she  swept  the  dinner  on  with  it. 

"So  much  has  happened  since  I  saw  you, 
Mr.  Durant.  I  never  can  thank  you  enough 
for  getting  me  into  the  DeVinne  Company. 
What  do  you  think?  I've  had  a  rise  in  salary, 
and  I'm  an  understudy  now."  Durant's  knife 
over  the  duck  paused  an  instant  in  compli 
ment. 

"I  had  duck  to-day,  Mr.  Durant,"  inter 
posed  Aunt  Mary,  candidly,  "because  last 
time  we  asked  you  for  dinner  you  didn't  come, 
and  it  took  us  a  whole  week  to  eat  up  the  leg 
of  lamb  I  roasted  for  you." 

"Indeed,  I'm  very  sorry,  Aunt  Mary,"  an 
swered  Durant,  on  impulse.  "I  promise  I 
68 


THE   MIKADO   COSTUME 

shall  never  fail  one  of  your  dinners  again. 
If  you  had  been  real  thoughtful,"  he  went  on, 
"jfou  might  have  sent  the  rest  of  the  leg  to 
New  York.  It  would  have  relieved  you  and 
comforted  me."  He  liked  the  cubby  room; 
the  table  so  small  he  could  pick  up  either  of  the 
chairs  across  it,  the  mashed  potatoes,  the 
gravy,  and  the  rattle  of  Katharine's  talk.  It 
was  all  new  to  the  man  of  bachelor  apart 
ments  and  wines  and  clubs  and  muddy  French 
sauces.  Never  before,  that  he  could  remember, 
had  he  compromised  himself  to  the  extent  of 
eating  tame  duck ;  yet  he  began  to  forget  his 
troubles  before  he  had  dismembered  the  de 
spised  bird — the  bird  that,  set  before  him  by 
his  own  cook,  he  would  have  pitched  into  the 
fireplace.  And  with  the  first  mouthful  he  was 
already  enjoying  himself.  "Whom  are  you 
understudying?"  he  asked  of  Katharine. 

"Marquise  Dahl.  You  know  we're  to  have 
a  big  revival  of  Patience  in  two  weeks,  and  I 
could  have  had  Sophie  le  May  to  understudy 
if  I  could  act  the  part ;  I  can  sing  it,  but  Mr. 
Lawrence  said  I  couldn't  act  it." 
69 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Is  Sophie  le  May  in  your  company?" 

"She's  been  in  three  months.  She  really 
lives  over  here;  do  you  know  her?" 

He  barely  paused  before  replying:    "No." 

"She's  the  airiest  piece " 

Then  Durant  added,  "That  is  to  say — I  met 
her  when  she  first  visited  Chicago ;  not  since. 
Tell  me  about  your  dramatic  teacher;  who  is 
she?" 

Everything  Katharine  had  to  tell  she  told 
with  zest.  When  Durant  left  it  was  five 
o'clock,  and  he  had  given  nearly  an  hour  to 
listening — Katharine  sitting  by — to  Aunt 
Mary  Sims'  troubles  about  the  two  flat  build 
ings  that  were  supposed  to  afford  her  sup 
port,  but  which  in  fact  ate  up  everything  she 
had  in  the  way  of  income. 

The  close  of  the  season  at  the  DeVinne 
brought  an  engagement  for  Katharine  in  an 
up-town  summer  production.  It  was  a  small 
company  and  the  salaries  depended  entirely 
upon  the  wind.  If  it  blew  off  the  lake  it 
brought  Katharine  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  On 
the  other  hand,  a  southern  breeze  brought 
70 


THE   MIKADO   COSTUME 

nothing  but  itself  into  the  treasury.  How 
ever,  Katharine  played  all  sorts  of  parts  in 
nearly  everything  under  the  sun.  The  stage- 
manager  and  musical  director  was  a  broken 
English  tenor  named  Scott  Barlow,  who  had 
done  something  at  grand  opera,  and  some 
thing  at  the  manufacture  of  laundry  ma 
chinery  and  understood  something  of  the  ho 
tel  business.  But  he  took  a  liking  to  Katha 
rine,  cast  her  for  everything,  and  worked  un 
tiringly.  In  three  months  he  taught  her  more 
than  she  could  have  learned  ordinarily  in 
three  years. 

Durant  looked  in  on  her  occasionally,  and 
once  or  twice  Lawrence,  who  had  a  remark 
ably  long  nose  for  everything  in  his  line,  saw 
her.  The  summer  engagement  brought  her 
a  new  proposal  from  the  DeVinne  manager 
for  the  winter,  with  a  hint  concerning  minor 
parts.  September  was  supposed  to  be  the 
month  of  rest;  but  it  was  a  month  in  which 
Katharine  worked  harder  than  ever  at  her  dra 
matic  lessons.  Barlow,  her  summer  friend, 
was  desirous  of  teaching  her.  She  consulted 
c  71 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

with  Durant;  he  had  seen  enough  of  Barlow 
to  decide,  and  told  her  to  take  Barlow. 

"But  he  drinks  some,"  admitted  Katharine, 
fearfully. 

"Under  some  circumstances  that  might  be 
dangerous ;  he  won't  make  a  drunkard  of  you. 
Then,  again,  if  he  didn't  drink,  he'd  be  draw 
ing  two  hundred  a  week  instead  of  hunting 
for  pupils.  He  comes  to  your  house,  anyway ; 
try  him." 

So  Barlow  came  twice  weekly  to  teach,  and 
his  shabby  air  so  alarmed  and  interested  Aunt 
Mary  Sims  that  she  ended  in  a  week  by  offer 
ing  him,  after  lessons — at  which  he  certainly 
did  work  hard — something  to  eat.  Aunt  Mary 
began  with  a  simple  glass  of  milk  and  a  plate 
of  three  wafer  crackers ;  but  Katharine,  soft 
and  cool  in  summer  stuffs,  telling  Durant  of  it 
one  night,  related  how  the  luncheon  had  grown 
from  milk  and  crackers  to  the  proportions  of 
a  feast,  and  added  that  Mr.  Barlow  in  the  end 
had  literally  cleared  out  the  refrigerator. 

Rehearsals  at  the  DeVinne  began  the  first 
of  October.  To  open  the  second  of  Law- 
72 


THE   MIKADO   COSTUME 

rence's  now  famous  two  Chicago  seasons  a 
grand  revival  of  the  Mikado  had  been  planned, 
with  Sophie  le  May  as  Yum  Yum.  Katharine 
was  cast  for  Pitti  Sing,  and  Barlow,  when  he 
wasn't  busy  emptying  the  family  larder,  was 
engaged  in  putting  Katharine  through  the 
subtleties  of  shrinking  her  height,  so  she 
should  not  tower  above  the  airy  Sophie — who 
had  long  claws — and  in  giving  her  extraordi 
nary  object  lessons  with  his  horny  knees  in 
the  mysteries  of  the  Japanese  shuffle. 

There  were  all  sorts  of  buoyant  expecta 
tions  in  the  Sims'  circle,  and  only  one  anxiety 
that  had  to  be  dragged  out  late,  after  the 
lights  were  low  and  the  fingers  were  limp  and 
the  hair  down:  that  was  a  costume  for 
Pitti  Sing.  Lawrence  was  applying  to 
comic  opera  the  extreme  principles  of  mod 
ern  display,  and  chief  among  his  advertising 
methods  were  lavish  appointments.  "I  pay 
good  salaries,"  he  growled ;  "I  stage  as  operas 
never  were  staged  before  anywhere  on  earth. 
I  want  the  costumes  right."  And  Katharine 
Sims,  with  a  good  salary  coming  and  a  good 
73 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

opportunity,  had  no  money  for  a  costume — 
the  real  anxiety  on  the  part  of  the  Sims' 
women  lay  in  the  most  commonplace  require 
ment.  As  the  time  approached  the  worry 
made  itself  more  definite.  Aunt  Mary  thought 
of  getting  their  renting  agents  to  advance  a 
hundred  dollars  and  take  a  quit-claim  deed  to 
all  their  flats  at  once;  but  she  knew  they 
would  smile,  even  bitterly,  on  such  a  pro 
posal. 

None  of  their  few  friends  knew  anything 
of  their  extremities.  In  the  evening  Kath 
arine  never  fatigued,  and  when  she  was  at 
work,  full  of  play,  would  rehearse  for  Aunt 
Mary  and  for  Durant,  who  began  to  drop  in 
evenings  to  sit  informally  in  the  doctor's 
chair.  One  night,  after  one  of  Katharine's 
prettiest  little  runs  down  the  dining-room  and 
the  living-room  for  the  stage  entrance,  Du 
rant  asked  a  question. 

"What's  your  costume!"  Katharine,  in 
humorous  despair,  dropped  on  the  piano-stooL 

"Heavens!  I  wish  I  knew.  I  haven't  a 
thing  yet,  and  the  opening  night  only  three 
74 


THE   MIKADO   COSTUME 

weeks  away ! ' '  she  replied,  running  to  a  cres 
cendo  of  alarm.  "I  think  I  shall  have  to 
wear  this!"  she  exclaimed,  more  demurely, 
looking  at  her  tea-gown.  * '  Wouldn  't  Mr.  Law 
rence  have  a  dear  fit?"  Katharine  bubbled. 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  suggested  Durant. 
"In  Yokohama,  some  six  or  seven  years  ago, 
Jardine-Mathieson's  representatives  were 
very  courteous  to  me,  and  I  carried  away,  as  a 
reminder  of  the  hospitality  of  one  of  their 
friends,  a  daimeo,  a  chest  of  woman's  stuffs." 

"Oh!" 

"I've  never  opened  it;  but  I've  no  doubt 
there  are  a  lot  of  things  in  that  chest  that 
would  come  in  for  your  Pitti  Sing  make-up." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Aunt  Mary!"  cried 
Katharine,  "come  here.  Listen!" 

"It's  down  at  the  office  in  one  of  the  vaults, 
with  quantities  of  other  junk,"  he  continued, 
after  the  story  had  been  told  to  Aunt  Mary. 
"I'll  have  the  box  sent  up.  If  there's  any 
thing  in  it  you  can  use,  use  it." 

"That  would  be  too  generous.  I  couldn't 
do  that." 

75 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"It  will  lie  there  in  the  dust  till  the  rats  eat 
holes  in  it  if  you  don't.  "What  do  you  say, 
Aunt  Mary?"  Poor  Aunt  Mary  fluttered. 

"It  would  help  out  like  everything;  but  it 
would  be  imposing  too  much." 

He  rolled  his  eyes.  "The  stuff  is  nothing 
to  me." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  never  opened 
the  chest?"  exclaimed  Katharine. 

"No.  But  if  you  will  promise  to  rummage 
the  thing  and  make  up  your  costume  out  of  it, 
I'll  send  the  chest  and  the  keys  up  Monday 
by  one  of  the  teams.  Will  you?" 

Katharine  swept  back  her  hair  with  a  sigh. 
"I'm  ashamed  to  say  how  welcome  such  a 
chance  would  be — like  manna  from  heaven. 
I'm  so  perplexed  about  a  costume  I'm  nearly 
sick." 

"I'll  gamble  on  the  chest.  Turn  your  worry 
on  something  else." 

"But  I  haven't  anything  else  to  worry 
about." 

Durant  had  said  it  was  a  small  box,  but  the 
entire  apartment-house  was  alarmed  before 


THE   MIKADO    COSTUME 

the  teamsters  got  the  chest  deposited  in  the 
Sims'  front  hall.  It  was  as  big  as  a  small 
trunk,  and  when  placed  inside  the  door  there 
was  no  way  of  getting  into  the  dining-room 
without  climbing  over  it. 

When  Katharine,  after  many  ineffectual  at 
tempts,  sprung  the  queer  lock  and  raised  the 
heavy  lid,  they  found  within  the  rough  outer 
case  a  black  lacquered  chest. 

Everything  that  a  woman  can  love  was 
emptied  out  of  that  chest.  Everything  that  a 
woman  can  wear  had  been  cunningly  bestowed 
in  its  modest  depths.  It  was  the  far  dainti 
ness  of  a  Tokio  woman  of  rank  disclosed  un 
der  the  distant  skies  of  Chicago.  There  were 
kimonas  in  it,  and  silk  handkerchiefs  issued 
from  corners  that  never  emptied.  Within, 
were  smaller  boxes  lacquered  in  gold  for 
jewels,  and  at  the  very  bottom  they  found  a 
layer  of  obis. 

Durant  had  promised   to  come  up  in  the 
evening  and  see  what  had  been  found.    The 
mantelpiece,  the  piano,  the  little  table  of  the 
living  room  were  strewn  with  stuffs. 
77 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Oh,  Mr.  Durant,  our  heads  are  giddy !"  ex 
claimed  Katharine,  as  she  greeted  him.  "Do 
you  really  mean  I  am  to  have  a  costume  out 
of  these  lovely,  lovely  things  V 

"If  you  find  anything  you  want." 

She  caught  her  breath.  Everything  seemed 
to  come  so  right  when  Durant  spoke.  Kath 
arine  gave  one  bound  forward,  as  if  she  would 
throw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  then  she  put 
her  hands  over  her  face  in  confusion,  turned 
and  flew  down  the  hall.  Aunt  Mary  found 
Durant  laughing  softly,  as  he  stuck  his  gloves 
into  his  overcoat  pocket. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  All  this  mess  ? 
Did  you  ever  see  such  confusion?  Well, 
really,  Katharine  is  as  near  crazy  as  can  be." 

Durant  headed  for  his  chair  in  the  front 
room.  It  was  some  moments  before  Kath 
arine,  with  moist  lips  and  dewy  eyes,  reap 
peared.  He  laughed  again,  as  she  spread  on 
his  knees  an  obi  and  spoke,  awed,  of  its  fine 
ness;  and  after  the  chest  talk  could  be  done 
away  he  asked  for  a  song.  She  sang  the  jewel 
song  of  Marguerite.  After  more  music,  the 
78 


THE   MIKADO   COSTUME 

women,  unappeased  in  their  accounting,  fell 
again  to  the  chest,  and  Durant,  against  in 
clination,  was  made  to  follow  the  delving; 
then  a  long  evening  went  to  planning,  drap 
ing,  pinning,  posing,  selection  and  rejection — 
Durant  in  the  big  chair  as  judge — till  late  in 
the  night. 


79 


CHAPTER  VII 

AT     THE      DE VINNE 

IT  was  on  a  November  evening,  slopping 
villainously  from  the  north  and  foggy,  that 
Lawrence's  second  season  at  the  DeVinne 
opened  with  the  Mikado  revival. 

Katharine,  hastening  down  early,  saw  only 
the  gloomy  f  agade  of  the  big  theater  looming 
up  on  the  boulevard;  the  glory  of  its  great 
frame  in  electric  blaze  was  reserved  another 
hour  for  those  that  paid.  Opening  night  this 
time  meant  as  much  as  anything  to  Katharine, 
a  dressing-room,  a  first  dressing-room,  shared 
with  Peep  Bo,  of  course — chubby  Anna 
Weeks,  the  German  girl  with  the  wide  throat, 
from  Diversey  Street — but,  still,  it  was  a 
dressing-room  with  some  privacy,  some  light 
and  some  warmth.  Aunt  Mary,  spectacled 
80 


AT    THE   DEVINNE 

and  apprehensive,  the  chiefest  Japanese 
treasures  clutched  tightly  in  her  hand-bag 
and  her  emotions  clutched  in  her  mouth,  sat 
in  the  one  available  corner  of  the  room  exam 
ining  critically  the  lace  edgings  on  Anna 
Weeks'  skirts — hysterically  jealous  of  any 
body  that  was  to  compete  even  on  the  same 
stage  with  Katharine  for  public  favor.  Kath 
arine  purposely  spent  a  long  time  on  her 
face,  for  her  companion  was  a  rapid  dresser, 
and  by  the  time  Aunt  Mary  was  called  on  to 
disclose  the  stickpins  and  the  fan  and  the 
breath-taking  obi — the  sweeping  Japanese 
sash  that  had  been  picked  out  to  wear  that 
night — Anna  was  dressed  and  up  in  the  wings. 
Katharine  slipped  into  her  soft  silk  kimona, 
given  so  long  ago  by  that  ancient  Japanese 
daimeo  to  Durant.  Then  came  the  trinkets 
from  the  bag  with  a  flutter;  the  hair  was 
finished,  the  fan  laid  out,  and  Aunt  Mary  un 
folded  the  obi  like  a  benediction  on  the  pretty 
make-up,  and  began  to  bind  it,  sash-like,  under 
Katharine's  arms.  For  a  week  Aunt  Mary 
had  done  nothing  but  tie  butterfly  knots 
81 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

across  Katharine's  shoulders,  and,  thanks  to 
Barlow,  who  knew  everything — practically 
everything,  and  what  he  didn't  know  was 
never  at  loss  to  assume — thanks  to  Barlow, 
Aunt  Mary  could  bow  an  obi  with  the  best 
Irishman  among  the  dressers. 

Katharine  looked  like  a  butterfly  out  of  a 
chrysalis,  as  she  emerged  timid  and  fluttering 
from  the  dressing-room.  Above,  she  heard 
the  music  of  the  orchestra.  A  nervous  chill 
struck  her,  thinking  she  had  spent  too  much 
time  dressing  and  that  her  stage  entrance  was 
upon  her.  But,  as  she  came  above  stairs,  it 
was  only  the  men's  chorus  striving  under  the 
terrific  inspiration  of  the  musical  director, 
and  with  a  vocal  earnestness  that  seemed  to 
imply  they  meant  at  every  cost  to  hold  their 
jobs. 

They  were  heralding  the  entrance  of  the 
Lord  High  Executioner.  Koko,  ghastly  in 
pigment,  stood  in  an  upper  entrance,  com 
plaining  to  the  manager  about  the  infernal 
bias  of  the  calcium  man.  The  interval  be 
tween  the  time  the  squatty  Koko  rolled  bow- 
82 


AT   THE   DEVINNE 

legged  down  the  stage  and  Katharine's  first 
number  seemed  hardly  a  minute  to  her  flutter 
ing  apprehension.  Almost  at  once  Sophie  le 
May  started  out  of  the  recess  and  joined,  with 
out  noticing,  her  two  maid  attendants.  They 
took  their  places,  the  cue  passed,  the  girls' 
chorus  ran  spreading  out,  the  halting  rhythm 
of  the  opening  bars  of  the  Little  Maids'  en 
trance  sounded,  and,  flanked  by  the  gorgeous 
setting  of  the  chorus,  the  three  women 
switched,  simpering,  out  into  the  blaze  of  yel 
lows  and  reds,  into  the  burst  of  the  blinding 
light  from  the  calciums,  and  shuffled  artfully 
coy  quite  down  the  big  stage. 

It  was  a  whirl  then,  every  minute,  to  the 
close  of  the  first  act.  The  principals  with 
rapid,  jerky  lines,  snatching  at  cues  and  airs ; 
the  chorus  attacking  with  nervous  precision ; 
the  weak  spots  unforeseen;  the  unlooked-for 
in  the  rehearsal  that  developed  in  the  trial. 
Then  came  momentary  intervals  of  dialogue, 
that  gave  the  musical  director  a  chance  to  mop 
his  dripping  forehead  and  his  abject  slaves 
a  chance  to  breathe — it  went  so  quickly,  all  of 
83 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

it,  and  then  the  only  moment  that  Katharine 
took  thought  of  was  upon  her. 

Weeks  had  gone  to  work  on  that  moment — 
the  moment  of  the  whole  first  half  of  the  even 
ing  in  which  Katharine  should  have  a  chance 
to  show  herself — in  the  finale  of  the  act  when 
Pitti  Sing  defies  Katisha  and,  upbraiding  her, 
waltzes  sarcastically  across  and  across  the 
stage  as  she  sings  at  the  angry  spinster. 

"You'll  have  only  a  moment,"  Barlow  had 
said  to  her  fifty  times ;  "but  for  that  moment 
the  whole  stage  is  yours.  Take  it  as  if  it  were 
the  hand  of  an  old  friend,  and  make  your  hit 
in  that  waits  song,  so  they'll  look  for  you  in 
the  execution  song  next  act." 

So  Katharine  had  done  the  waltz  for  hours 
together  from  the  kitchen  clear  to  the  front 
window  of  the  flat  and  back  again,  and  when 
her  cue  came  she  was  ready.  With  a  sweep 
of  the  big  fan,  that  she  threw  into  a  running 
bow  of  sarcasm  at  Katisha  as  she  started  for 
ward,  Katharine  in  a  clear,  confident  tone 
took  her  music,  and,  with  her  chin  well  up, 
glided  down  the  stage  open-armed,  floating, 
84 


AT   THE   DEVINNE 

as    she    sang   to   the   perfect   swing   of   the 
music. 

When  it  was  done  Katisha,  who  was  big, 
contralto,  and  friendly,  looked  her  approval. 
As  Katharine,  flushed  with  animation,  swung 
back  to  her  place  something  else  happened; 
the  eye  of  Sophie  le  May  caught  hers  for  an 
instant — an  instant  of  cold,  critical  scrutiny. 
Katharine,  all  open,  successful  and  happy,  did 
not  take  its  import  at  once,  and  not  until  the 
opening  of  the  last  act  did  the  jealous  look 
disclose  itself  in  an  actual  scratch.  While 
Yum  Yum's — Sophie's — attendants  were  at 
tiring  her  for  her  bridals  to  the  soothing 
strains  of  the  maidens'  chorus,  Katharine,  as 
Pitti,  posed  before  her  with  a  mirror.  She 
was  not  more  than  half  in  front  of  the  dainty 
Sophie,  but  the  French  eyes  blazed.  "Get 
your  place !"  she  hissed.  Katharine,  startled, 
dropped  the  mirror;  it  broke  on  the  stage 
floor.  Sophie's  anger  was  an  assault  from  the 
last  person  on  earth  she  expected  trouble  with, 
and  poor  Katharine,  tumbling  from  her  point 
of  happiness,  went  to  pieces.  Her  song  near 
85 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

the  close  of  the  act  was  yet  to  come,  and  when 
it  came  she  was  so  upset  and  so  thoroughly 
frightened  at  Sophie's  rage  that  she  sang  her 
song  of  Nanki's  execution  with  a  terror  that 
made  an  impression.  Not  with  the  big  audi 
ence  that  noticed  only  the  principals:  her 
hit  was  not  with  the  audience,  but  where  it 
counted — with  Benny  Wilcox,  the  stage-mana 
ger,  whose  business  was  to  watch  the 
promise  of  the  underlings  and  understudies; 
she  made  a  friend  of  the  stage-manager  with 
her  song,  and  with  the  one  gorgeous  obi  out 
of  Durant's  treasure  chest,  an  enemy  of  So 
phie  le  May.  The  next  day  she  was  told  to 
understudy  Sophie. 

Events  crowded  on  her  faster  than  work, 
and  the  work  came  fast.  Sophie  le  May's 
jealousy  became  an  open  war  on  Katharine's 
Pitti  Sing.  Durant  was  in  New  York,  and 
Aunt  Mary  and  Katharine  had  to  fight  it  all 
alone.  The  whole  company  saw  the  persecu 
tion,  but  most  opera-singers  have  troubles  of 
their  own,  and  the  chorus  girls  were  them 
selves  jealous  of  any  one  taken  so  unexpect- 
86 


AT   THE   DEVINNE 

edly  from  the  ranks  as  Katharine  had  been. 
Sophie  exhausted  the  fineness  of  Gallic  mean 
ness.  She  appealed  to  the  stage-manager, 
complaining  of  Pitti  Sing's  gorgeousness  and 
of  her  attempts,  so  she  declared,  to  take  the 
stage  from  her  in  her  acting  and  her  costume. 
"When  the  stage-manager  gave  her  no  satis 
faction  she  turned  one  night,  as  Katharine 
sang  up  to  her,  and  with  one  hand  pushed  her 
back.  Something  of  Aunt  Mary  and  old  Vir 
ginia  would  not  stand  that.  Katharine's  sub 
missive  fear  turned  to  wrath,  and,  fan  in  hand, 
she  flirted  and  swept  and  posed  before  the 
angry  Frenchwoman  till  Koko  got  to  laugh 
ing  so  that  he  put  the  manager  in  a  rage. 
Next  morning  Sophie  brought  things  to  a 
crisis.  She  declined  to  sing  again  unless 
Katharine  was  removed  from  the  cast.  The 
quarrel  went  up  to  Lawrence.  There  were 
hasty  conferences  in  the  manager's  office  and 
a  rushing  of  cabs  to  Sophie's  hotel.  She  was 
obdurate ;  her  ultimatum  was  that  Katharine 
be  withdrawn.  Then  the  skirmishing  went  to 
the  North  Side.  Benny  Wilcox  tried  to  get 
7  87 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

Katharine  to  go  down  and  make  peace 
with  Sophie.  Katharine,  in  tears,  declared 
she  would  die  first.  That  night  was  a  night 
of  gloom  in  the  Sims'  apartments.  Katharine 
had  been  told  that  if  the  thing  could  be  patched 
up  a  messenger  would  be  sent  for  her.  The 
two  women  waited,  miserable.  The  waiting 
hour  passed  and  no  carriage  wheels  slowed 
before  their  door.  They  crept,  crushed,  to 
bed.  At  nine  o'clock  the  bell  rang ;  the  heads 
of  the  two  lone  women  left  their  pillows  to 
gether. 

"Who  is  it?"  demanded  Aunt  Mary,  shiver 
ing  with  excitement  as  she  went  forward, 
while  Katharine  listened. 

"All  gone  to  bed?" 

"It's  Mr.  Durant!"  cried  Aunt  Mary. 
"Oh,  Mr.  Durant,  will  you  wait  just  a 
minute?" 

"No ;  I  won't  disturb  you  to-night.  I'll  call 
again " 

"But  we  want  to  see  you.  Oh,  don't  go, 
please;  we  must  see  you,  Mr.  Durant.  Let 
me  light  the  gas,  then  I'll  unlock  so  you  can 
88 


AT    THE   DEVINNE 

let  yourself  in,  and  we'll  join  you  in  a  jiffy. 
Now  you  will  stay,  won't  you !" 

He  opened  the  door  on  Aunt  Mary's  signal, 
and  going  into  the  living-room  sat  down. 

"You  keep  good  hours,"  suggested  Durant, 
as  Aunt  Mary  appeared  and  performed  her 
one  extravagant  welcome  by  lighting  the  gas- 
log. 

"I  am  so  glad  you've  come !"  she  exclaimed, 
rising.  "Katharine's  in  the  worst  trouble — 
wait  till  she  comes  in,  I  want  her  to  tell  you 
herself.  How  are  you?"  she  exclaimed,  ey 
ing  him  critically  through  her  spectacles,  as 
she  sat  down  and  pulled  one  sleeve  into  place. 
"You  haven't  been  ill!" 

"No.  New  York ;  just  back  yesterday,"  said 
Durant.  "I  dropped  in  at  the  DeVinne  last 
night.  Miss  Katharine  surprised  me.  She'll 
run  away  from  us  all  if  we  don't  look  out; 
she's  an  actress.  Lots  to  learn;  but  she's  an 
actress.  To-night  I  went  back  and  missed 
her,  so  I  came  over  to  see  what  the  row 
was." 

"Oh,  wait  till  she  tells  you.  It's  dreadful." 
89 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

Katharine,  almost  running,  came  with  both 
hands  outstretched  as  Durant  rose.  She  had 
on  one  of  the  chest  kimonas.  "I  slipped  into 
this !"  she  exclaimed,  radiantly,  as  she  stepped 
back,  half  laughing,  and  with  spreading  arms 
courtesied  deep  before  him,  "mindful  of  the 
command  of  the  Oriental  traveler.  Remem 
ber?  You  said  you  wanted  to  see  how  some 
of  your  spoil  would  look  animated.  Pray, 
how  do  you  like  the  effect?" 

It  was  an  instant  before  he  answered,  "Mag 
nificent."  The  word  was  a  whole  tribute. 

"And  what  do  you  think?"  Katharine  ex 
claimed,  reverting  to  her  own  troubles,  as  she 
sank  rue-faced  on  the  piano-stool.  ' '  Sophie  le 
May,  that  horrid  Frenchwoman,  has  had  me 
put  out  of  the  cast !" 

Durant  laughed  silently.  "I'm  not  sur 
prised." 

"You're  noW 

"I  should  rather  have  looked  for  it." 

"But  I've  never  done  a  single  thing  to  her 
in  my  life." 

"I  think  you  have." 
90 


AT   THE   DEVINNE 

"Pray,  tell  me  what !" 

"You  out-acted  her  and  out-sung  her  only 
last  night.  Other  people  haven't  yet  found 
out  you  are  doing  it;  but  she's  quicker  than 
other  people." 

"Oh,  no;  it  wasn't  that.  It  was  my  cos 
tume,  Anna  Weeks  says.  She's  insanely  jeal 
ous.  It's  away  ahead  of  hers — or  anybody 
else's  for  that  matter.  But  no  other  poor  girl 
had  so  good,  good  a  friend  and  such  a  chest 
to  help  herself  from  as  I  had." 

"I've  been  telling  your  aunt  I  saw  you  last 
night.  You  act  like  a  professional." 

Katharine  raised  her  brows.  "Profes 
sional  !  Well,  I  should  hope  I'm  at  least  that," 
she  protested. 

"Not  to  me,"  returned  Durant,  bluntly. 
"Anyway,  I  can't  quite  place  you  so." 

"Pray,  why  not?" 

"I  suppose  it's  because  I  know  you  so  much 
better  than  I  know  professional  people  now 
adays." 

"And  I  suppose  I  must  believe  you,"  she  re 
torted,  naively.  ''Though  Mr.  Barlow  tells 
91 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

me  your  acquaintance  with  stage  people  is 
wide." 

"Tell  me  what  the  trouble  is.  This  is  get 
ting  interesting,  even  for  outsiders." 

Sitting  on  the  stool  Katharine,  with  the  ut 
most  spirit,  told  her  story.  Her  lessons  in 
expression  showed  now  constantly  in  her  man 
ner,  as  they  do  in  the  earlier  life  of  actresses, 
and  she  could  not  relate  a  street-car  incident 
without  fervor. 

They  talked  a  long  time.  Afterward  Aunt 
Mary  found  some  chicken  which  she  heated, 
Virginia  fashion,  and  the  talk  went  to  the 
dining-room,  where  Durant,  his  stubby  gray 
hair  falling  short  over  his  forehead,  sat  at 
the  head  of  the  round  table.  Katharine,  with 
never-failing  animation,  did  the  talking.  Aunt 
Mary  interpleaded  considerably,  and  Durant 
slowly  buttered  a  cracker  or  holding  a  chicken- 
bone  in  the  finger  and  the  thumb  of  one  hand 
shredded  it  thoughtfully  with  his  fork  as  he 
listened. 

"If  there  are  any  new  developments  to 
morrow "  he  began  on  leaving. 

92 


AT    THE   DEVINNE 

"I'll  telephone  you!"  exclaimed  Katharine. 

' '  Good  night,  Aunt  Mary. ' ' 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Durant" 

"Your  chicken  was  excellent." 

"Thank  you." 

"Good  night,  Miss  Katharine.  Keep  me 
posted,  won't  you f ' 

At  eleven  o'clock  next  day  Durant  called  on 
Mabel  Anthony.  "My  little  singer  is  in  trou 
ble,"  he  began,  after  her  greeting. 

"What  little  singer  f ' 

"Katharine  Sims — Doctor  Sims'  daughter." 

"Oh.  Your  little  singer  is  getting  to  be  a 
pretty  big  singer,  isn't  she?" 

"Is  she  ?  I  hope  so.  Well,  they've  shelved 
her  for  some  reason." 

"I  know  all  about  it." 

"Help  me  straighten  it  out,  will  you?" 

She  made  a  despairing  gesture  with  her 
dark  eyes.  "It's  an  awful  row." 

"Women's  rows  usually  are,  aren't  they?" 

"Mistress  Katharine  is  too  lively  for  So 
phie." 

"Out-sings  her,  doesn't  she  ?" 
93 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Well,  it  isn't  that.  Katharine  is  an  ag 
gressive  miss  and  she  takes  too  much  stage 
for  Sophie.  Then  she  made  up  in  a  costume 
that  simply  thunderstruck  Sophie.  Opening 
night  Lawrence  said  to  me,  'There's  a  cos 
tume  that  has  never  been  approached  at  a 
DeVinne  presentation,  and  we  think  we've 
seen  some  costumes  here,  too.'  He  talked  for 
five  minutes  about  it.  Where  did  she  get  such 
stuffs  ?  They  must  be  heirlooms.  It's  a  pity, 
really,  to  shab  them  out  in  that  way." 

"Did  Lawrence  like  or  dislike  it?" 

"A  man  that  wears  a  plush  jacket  himself? 
He  likes  anything  sensational." 

Durant  mused.  "I  wish  it  were  patched  up 
somehow." 

"Patch  it  up  yourself.  Go  and  see  Sophie. 
You  used  to  be  good  friends  when  she  first 
came  over." 

He  shook  his  head.  "I'll  tell  you!"  ex 
claimed  Mabel  Anthony,  "Lawrence  is  to  be 
at  a  managers'  luncheon  to-day  at  the  Riche 
lieu.  They're  going  to  talk  over  the  Actors' 
Fund  Benefit  next  month.  I'm  going.  Come 
94 


AT   THE   DEVINNE 

along,  and  you  may  talk  to  Lawrence  your 
self." 

"Sha'n't  I  be  an  intruder?" 

She  tossed  her  head.  "They'll  want  you 
on  the  general  committee.  I  think  I'm  weighty 
enough  to  stand  for  you,  anyway." 

Durant  did  not  undervalue  the  opportunity. 
He  called  early  in  a  cab  for  Miss  Anthony, 
and  in  the  Richelieu  parlors  they  waited 
for  the  arrivals.  When  Lawrence,  tall  and 
fussy,  and  dressy  and  bald,  stepped  from  the 
elevator,  Miss  Anthony,  under  Durant's  wing, 
went  forward,  gloved  and  hatted.  Greet 
ings  followed.  The  manager  was  cordial 
to  Durant.  "We  don't  see  much  of  you 
lately." 

"I'm  in  New  York  a  good  deal." 

"You're  working  too  hard — you're  not  look 
ing  well.  Come  down  with  me  to  Mardi  Gras 
in  February  and  get  rested  up.  I'm  going  to 
take  a  month  if  I  can." 

"I  like  that!"  cried  Miss  Anthony.  "That's 
a  great  place  to  get  rested.  Don't  you  do  it, 
Mr.  Durant.  There's  Mr.  Stein  and  Will  An- 
95 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

derson.  I  want  to  see  Will  Anderson  a  mo 
ment."  She  moved  away. 

"Have  you  seen  the  Mikado?"  asked  Law 
rence. 

"Havel?  I've  seen  it  twice.  Lawrence,  it's 
a  marvel.  Sophie  le  May's  voice,  of  course, 
isn't  precisely  a  voice  for  Sullivan's  music — 
your  staging  is  a  dream."  Miss  Anthony  re* 
joined  them. 

"How's  your  row,  Mr.  Lawrence?"  she 
asked.  He  scowled.  "I've  been  telling  Mr. 
Durant  your  troubles,"  she  added.  "Such  a 
shame,  when  you've  spent  such  a  mint  on  your 
production." 

"Isn't  it  an  infernal — begging  your  par 
don,"  Lawrence  interjected  at  Miss  Anthony 
— "shame,  Durant?" 

"Won't  she  listen  to  reason?" 

"Listen  to  reason  ?    She  won't  listen  to " 

"Is  she  running  your  company,  or  are  you 
running  it?"  asked  Durant,  quietly  harsh. 

"I'm  running  it ;  but  what  can  I  do  ?" 

"What  can  you  do?  Who's  that  girl  you 
have  doing  Pitti  Sing  ?  She's  out-singing  and 
96 


AT   THE   DEVINNE 

out-acting  Sophie  every  night  in  the  week. 
What's  the  matter  with  billing  her  for  Yum 
Yum?  Send  Sophie  to  your  New  York  Com 
pany.  It  needs  strengthening,  from  the  way 
they  talk  down  there.  When  do  you  folks  eat 
here ?  Are  these  people  all  managers ?" 

The  party  went  to  the  dining-room.  Mabel 
Anthony  sat  on  one  side  of  Lawrence,  Durant, 
taciturn,  on  the  other.  The  nervous  DeVinne 
manager  was  soon  fermenting. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  whispered 
to  Miss  Anthony,  after  a  while. 

"What?" 

"Putting  Sims  up  for  Yum  Yum  next 
week?" 

"Can  she  sing  it?" 

"She  has  been  understudying  it  right 
along." 

' '  It  would  be  a  big '  ad., '  wouldn  't  it — to  side 
with  the  Chicago  girl?  If  you  think  she  can 
do  it,  I  shouldn't  hesitate  a  minute.  What  are 
you  running  in  New  York?  You  can  use  So 
phie  there  just  as  well." 

Careful  to  let  Lawrence  feel  that  he  was 
97 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

reaching  his  own  conclusions,  they  hung  near 
him  for  an  hour;  then  Durant  drove  Mabel 
back  to  her  newspaper  office.  He  took  her 
hand  in  saying  good-by.  "You're  the  best- 
hearted  woman  of  them  all."  She  shook  her 
head  as  she  drew  her  fingers  away,  smiling 
with  a  slight  weariness.  Then  she  appeared 
about  to  speak,  but  her  expression  changed 
and  she  said  only,  "Good-by.  Come  and  see 
me  when  I  can  do  anything  for  any  friend  of 
yours." 

That  night  Durant  had  a  telegram  from  the 
North  Side:  "Mr.  L.  called  this  afternoon. 
Was  lovely.  Stayed  a  whole  hour.  Am  to 
sing  Yum  Yum  next  week. 

"K.  S." 


98 


CHAPTER  VIH 

A   SONG   AND   AN   ACCOUNTING 

ON  Monday  night  Durant  sat  in  an  obscure 
corner  of  the  DeVinne  parquet.  His  sack 
coat  snugly  cut,  his  arms  folded,  his  close 
mustache  and  his  hair  falling  stubbornly,  so 
marked  him  that  his  features  reflected  the  con 
tained,  grayish  expression  of  his  apparel. 
Through  the  whole  of  the  first  act  he  sat  im 
movable,  and  any  one  of  the  singers  would 
have  thought  it  a  despairing  matter  to  appeal 
to  such  an  auditor.  The  second  act  of  the 
Mikado  opened  with  its  chorus  of  girls,  and 
as  they  fled  out  of  the  blaze  of  brightness  the 
music  ceased,  the  jets  were  sent  very  low,  and 
the  recesses  of  the  big  stage  were  dimmed 
into  gloom. 

The  hush  that  follows  a  low  lighting  spread 
over  the  house;  the  orchestra,  under  hooded 
99 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

lamps,  picked  up  very  gently  a  strain  of  rock 
ing  music,  and  Katharine  Sims,  stealing, 
alone,  out  and  down  the  huge  phantom  setting, 
lifted  her  voice  in  the  Moon  Song. 

It  was  familiar  enough ;  yet  to  one  man  in 
the  big  audience — to  Durant — this  stealing, 
singing  girl,  with  her  halting  feet,  creeping 
shyly  down  the  stage,  came  like  an  assault. 
She  strangely  moved  him.  In  her  make-up, 
her  mincing,  her  mimicry,  came  to  him  some 
thing  vague  of  the  fragrance  of  the  pagan 
East.  But  in  the  honest  sweetness  of  her 
\  voice  came  mightier — as  reality  is  mightier 
.  than  a  dream — all  the  pure  traditions  of  his 
better  self,  his  own  country,  his  people,  his 
blood  and  kind.  With  every  step  she  took 
toward  him  her  eyes  through  the  darkness  ap 
peared  to  seek  his — as  she  had  said  they 
should.  Her  arm  from  the  folds  of  her  ki- 
mona,  following  the  play  of  her  running 
words,  stole  forth  bare ;  the  turn  of  her  wrist 
sent  a  choking  current  through  him,  and  his 
breath  struggled  against  control.  Her  song 
he  no  longer  heard ;  to  him  she  was  a  woman 
100 


A   SONG  AND   AN   ACCOUNTING 

like  to  no  other,  and  he  no  longer  denied  his 
being  its  impulse — to  love  her  with  every 
sense  of  life. 

There  was  applause  about  him.  It  rose  in 
waves  while  he  drew  his  handkerchief  to  wipe 
a  moisture  of  faintness  from  his  forehead. 
The  hand-clapping  increased ;  she  was  bowing 
and  his  throat  was  filling  like  the  level  of  a 
spring,  rising  or  falling  as  she  came  forward 
or  receded.  Heartier  applause  followed.  Du- 
rant  watched  her  curtsy  again  and  again.  A 
boy  ran  past  him  down  the  aisle,  carrying  an 
armful  of  roses ;  it  went  as  a  dream.  He  knew 
only  one  thing — that  she  was  a  sudden  angel 
to  every  desire  and  longing  of  his  life. 

The  stage  lighted,  filled  again ;  the  Mikado 
danced  in,  Koko  capered ;  Durant,  impassive, 
sat  consumed  by  his  emotions.  There  was  no 
play,  no  music,  for  him.  After  the  measures 
of  the  last  chorus  had  been  thundered  out, 
he  was  pushed  and  crowded  along  in  the  cur 
rent  for  the  exits.  Back  of  the  parquet  circle 
seats  he  stepped  out  of  the  crowd  to  hunt  up 
an  usher,  whom  he  vaguely  remembered  he 
101 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

had  commissioned  earlier  in  the  evening.  The 
faces  of  the  audience  filing  past  were  strange. 
Society  people  such  as  he  knew — the  people 
who  went  to  first  nights  and  unusual  stage 
events — were  not  of  this  big  houseful.  These 
were  ordinary  people.  But  these  hundreds 
of  strange  faces,  of  well-dressed  men  and 
women,  who  crowded  to  hear  her  sing,  inter 
ested  him.  Some  one  caught  his  hand  and 
called  him  enthusiastically  by  name. 

"Say,  isn't  it  great?  By  Jove!  that  Kath 
arine  Sims  makes  a  Yum  Yum  for  your  life, 
doesn't  she,  Mr.  Durant?  Isn't  she  a  corker? 
She's  been  singing  Pitti  Sing.  She's  all 
right!"  It  was  one  of  his  clerks  from  the  of 
fice. 

In  a  moment  Durant's  eye  lighted  on  the 
usher  he  was  looking  for. 

"Did  you  take  up  the  flowers?" 

"Why,  sure!  In  the  Moon  Song.  Didn't 
you  see  me?" 

He  gave  the  boy  a  card.  "Come  to  my  office 
to-morrow  morning  at  eleven.  I  want  to  use 


you  again." 


102 


A   SONG  AND  AN  ACCOUNTING 

He  hardly  turned  when  another  spoke. 

"Hello,  old  boy!  What  you  doin'  'round 
here  to-night!"  Stein  stood  at  his  elbow. 
"I'm  over  here  now;  did  you  know  that?  I 
quit  the  Caxton.  Going  to  take  this  troupe 
for  Lawrence.  He's  going  to  New  York  next 
week.  Well,  what  you  lookin'  for  1  Oh,  I  for 
got" — and  the  man  that  never  forgot  apol 
ogized  for  his  stupidity — "Yum  Yum.  She's 
all  right,  eh,  George?"  he  grinned.  Durant 
laid  one  hand  on  him. 

"See  here,  Stein.  Don't  ever  couple  me  or 
my  name  with  Yum  Yum  or  any  one  else — do 
you  understand?"  The  little  man  winced  un 
der  the  cruel  fingers.  "Understand,  Stein?" 

At  the  stage  entrance  Katharine,  bundled, 
was  stepping  into  the  carriage  he  had  pro 
vided  ;  Aunt  Mary,  behind  her,  stepping  over 
all  the  curb  and  into  the  gutter  to  find  the 
step.  They  had  insisted  when  he  said  he 
should  send  a  carriage  that  he  ride  home 
with  them  for  supper,  but  he  had  said 
no.  And  walking  now  down  the  boulevard 
alone  he  was  glad  he  had  said  no,  for  some- 
8  103 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

thing  seemed  to  loom  between  her  and  him — 
something  crystallized  in  Stein's  leer. 

It  was  that  if  he  paid  to  this  girl  even  as 
much  as  the  courtesies  of  her  father's  friend, 
his  own  too  public,  too  careless  name,  the  free 
and  easy  name  of  old,  would  be  coupled,  to  her 
undoing,  with  hers.  And  now  he  loved  her. 
He  walked  alone  that  night,  and  his  room 
when  he  entered  it  was  lonely.  There  was  a 
fire  still  in  the  grate.  Seymour,  who  of  late, 
frightened  at  Durant's  breaking  health,  had 
slept  near  him,  woke  sometime  in  the  night, 
and,  in  passing  to  the  bathroom  for  a  drink 
of  water,  found  the  boy — Seymour  always 
called  George  Durant  the  boy — in  front  of  the 
fire  burning  a  litter  of  photographs. 

The  next  day  kept  Durant  close  at  the  of 
fice.  It  was  a  wild  day  in  coffee.  The  sta 
tistical  position  was  bad.  Eio  had  long  been 
swamped  under  daily  receipts,  Havre  had 
been  uneasy  for  a  month,  and  that  morning 
Herrman  had  begun  smashing  Sevens  on  the 
New  York  Exchange.  The  terrific  fight  of 
the  roasters  was  beginning,  and  every  day 
104 


and  day  after  day  the  market  sagged  under 
the  savage  blows  of  the  Havemeyers.  Im 
porters  saw  their  holdings  shrink  till  all  low 
records  were  gone,  and  men  on  the  street 
spoke  under  their  breaths  of  a  new  order  of 
things — of  the  passing  of  an  old  coffee  mar 
ket  and  of  the  facing  a  new  one. 

Every  eye  on  the  street  was  turned  toward 
the  corner  of  Sloan-Durant.  They  were  the 
big  people  on  whom  the  new  order  would  tell. 

Some  talked  of  their  holding  out;  others 
said  that  this  time  Durant  must  go.  Some 
quoted  the  Santos  cables  with  no  rain  for  five 
weeks  and  the  poorest  flowering  in  ten  years ; 
others  declared  it  meant  new  factors  in  the 
coffee  business.  Some  recalled  the  stirring 
pages  of  Sloan-Durant  history — the  history 
of  the  lions  of  the  coffee  market;  the  men 
that  fought  in  the  open,  never  asked  quarter, 
rarely  gave  it:  others  shook  their  heads. 
Salesmen  with  dramatic  force  recounted  red- 
letter  days  in  George  Durant's  own  career, 
type  of  the  fortunes  of  his  house,  and  told  to 
reflecting  listeners  stories  of  convulsions  in 
105 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

coffee  in  which  he  had  borne  fierce  part. 
Others,  joining  groups  at  brokers'  counters, 
whispered,  as  the  ticker  clicked  and  messen 
gers  dashed  up  the  street  and  down,  that 
George  Durant  was  at  his  desk  in  Eandolph 
Street. 

Day  after  day  he  sat  there  directing  the 
fight  for  his  existence  as  a  merchant.  No 
body  knew,  nobody  could  guess  his  tactics. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  fought  from  cover. 
The  contest  was  between  New  York  million 
aires  ;  it  was  none  of  his.  But  it  meant  ruin 
for  him  unless  he  could  avert  it,  and  in  one 
hour  his  policy  was  fixed :  to  sell  every  bag  as 
fast  as  it  could  be  sold,  and  take  the  loss  just 
where  it  caught  him. 

So  it  was  done.  Brokers  that  never  in  their 
lives  had  had  a  commission  from  Sloan-Du- 
rant  went  on  the  New  York  Exchange  loaded 
to  the  throat  with  selling  orders.  Weakness 
became  confusion.  Option  after  option  was 
thrown  on  the  market,  frightened  and  expect 
ant,  until  every  dollar  of  Durant 's  specula 
tive  holdings  had  been  liquidated.  Apprehen- 
106 


A   SONG  AND   AN  ACCOUNTING 

sion  grew  into  alarm  and  alarm  into  panic — 
but  the  Sloan-Durant  coffee  to  the  last  bag, 
future  and  afloat,  was  thrown  over.  Mean 
time  on  the  street  the  house  were  free  sellers 
at  every  step  of  the  frightful  decline.  Every 
man  that  would  buy  a  bag  of  coffee  was  fol 
lowed  ;  no  offer  was  declined.  On  the  day  be 
fore  Christmas  coffees  stood  three  and  one- 
half  cents  off  the  top  of  the  November  selling 
movement.  Sloan-Durant  were  out  of  the 
market,  and  had  been  for  two  weeks.  To  the 
surprise  of  the  prophets  the  enormous  liqui 
dation,  the  sudden  and  overwhelming  shifting 
of  values  had  been  accomplished  without  a 
failure  of  consequence  in  the  coffee  trade.  It 
was  known  then  who  had  taken  the  bull  by 
the  horns  and  unloaded  early  on  a  market 
that  would  have  bankrupted  him  had  there 
been  a  moment's  delay  or  hesitation — George 
Durant. 

On  Christmas  Eve  Thomas  Seymour  took 

into  the  private  office  a  balance-sheet.     The 

old  accountant  had  stood  this  last  of  many 

tempests  badly,  and  the   tremble   had   crept 

107 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

more  visibly  into  his  walk.  He  stood  for  the 
failing  strength  of  the  house  whose  fortunes 
he  had  followed.  Tall,  stooping,  shuffling; 
uncertain  in  his  step  and  in  his  eye,  the  eye 
that  when  faced  squarely  he  hid  by  fingering 
his  glasses;  shrunken  in  his  voice,  which  to 
others  had  dried  to  a  querulous  treble,  and 
before  George  Durant  was  wholly  silent, 
Thomas  Seymour  laid  on  the  chief's  desk  the 
balance  for  the  year. 

The  record  for  the  first  ten  months  was  un 
eventful  enough;  then  came  two  frightful 
entries — November,  December.  The  Import 
ing  Account ;  the  Option  Account.  Durant  sat 
looking  out  on  the  crush  of  trucks  and  teams 
under  the  elevated,  and  at  the  whirl  of  peo 
ple  making  for  the  Illinois  Central.  It  was 
growing  dark,  and  in  the  dark  he  sat,  unob 
served,  tapping  mechanically  with  a  lead- 
pencil  on  the  edge  of  his  desk.  He  took  up 
the  sheet  as  Seymour  turned  on  an  Edison 
lamp,  and,  studying  it,  contemplated  his  ruin. 
It  was  only  for  a  moment ;  the  results  had  been 
discounted  many  times  within  the  month  just 
108 


A   SONG  AND  AN  ACCOUNTING 

passed.  The  house  was  solvent;  there  was 
no  bankruptcy ;  but  there  was  no  surplus.  It 
was  the  chapter  which  closed  the  book  that 
Mortimer,  Sloan,  Ross,  and  Simon  Durant, 
young  men,  had  opened  in  New  York,  a  thou 
sand  miles  from  that  spot,  fifty-two  years 
before.  George  Durant  turned. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  to  do,  Tom." 
His  voice  was  kindly.  Seymour's  gray  head 
bent  in  his  hands  and  a  flood  of  tears  rained 
through  his  fingers.  "It  is  your  misfortune, 
my  dear  fellow,"  Durant  went  on,  slowly, 
"that  you  have  outlived  the  day  of  the  joint 
account.  It  made  us  rich ;  but  it  is  a  thing  of 
the  past.  We  are  out  of  it,  Tom.  Im 
porters  we  can  no  longer  call  ourselves. 
Charge  off  this  whole  importing  plant,"  he 
said,  with  awful,  deliberate  emphasis — "the 
Eio  branch,  the  Santos  branch,  everything — 
to  profit  and  loss  and  never  let  me  see  a  bal 
ance-sheet  of  it  again. 

"To-morrow  open  a  new  set  of  books.    We 
will  turn  pedlers.    We  are  brokers  now,  and 
we  will  try  to  compete  with  our  neighbors." 
109 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

Outside,  with  the  gathering  darkness,  the 
stream  of  home-going  people  thickened,  and 
the  crush  of  teams  with  the  jam  of  cable- 
trains  deepened  into  an  infernal  uproar.  But 
where  real  ruin  was,  in  the  private  office,  Du- 
rant  spoke  quiet  words  to  the  old  bookkeeper, 
and  when  Seymour  rose,  closed  his  desk,  and 
followed  him  between  the  desks  of  the  ac 
countants  to  the  window  counters  of  the  sales 
room.  A  messenger  came  with  a  note  from 
his  florist,  asking  about  the  usual  ordering 
of  flowers  for  Christmas.  One  after  another 
of  names  that  had  stood  for  years  Durant 
struck  from  the  list.  But  one  order  he  left: 
the  order  for  the  DeVinne.  It  had  stood  at  two 
dozen  long-stemmed  American  Beauty  roses 
for  each  evening.  Reaching  this  order,  the 
last  on  the  list,  he  struck  out  two  dozen  and 
inserted  four  dozen,  writing  the  figure  and 
the  word  four  with  the  exactness  he  used  in 
telegrams,  that  there  should  be  no  mistake. 

Durant  put  on  his  overcoat;  another  mes 
senger  boy  entered  the  office.  He  brought  a 
note  from  Aunt  Mary  Sims  asking  him  to 
110 


A   SONG  AND   AN  ACCOUNTING 

come  at  seven  o'clock  the  next  evening  to 
Christmas  dinner.  Katharine,  she  said,  would 
sing  at  the  matinee,  and  they  should  be  unex 
pectedly  free  for  the  evening. 

It  had  been  the  Sims'  happiest  Christmas, 
the  only  happy  Christmas  since  their  father 
and  breadwinner  had  died.  They  possessed 
money  to  do  a  few  things  with ;  in  spite  of  all 
the  demands  for  stage  toilets,  Katharine  had 
a  new  dress,  a  street  dress,  and  carried  her 
head  with  something  of  confidence. 

There  had  been  callers  during  the  last  few 
days.  Some  of  the  old  church  friends  on  the 
South  Side  had  hunted  up  the  remnants  of 
the  Sims  family,  which  had  so  suddenly 
dropped  into  obscurity  after  the  doctor's 
death,  to  satisfy  themselves  with  their  own 
eyes  if  it  were  really  so ;  whether  it  was  she, 
and  to  congratulate  Katharine  on  her  aston^ 
ishing  success.  Katharine  smiled  at  such 
compliments,  for  she  thought  she  could  af 
ford  to.  Others  had  come  with  genuine  in 
terest  and  enthusiasm  and  hand  pressures. 
So  the  Simses  were  happy,  and  dinner  was 
111 


THE    CLOSE   OF   THE    DAY 

just  one  half -hour  late  because  Katharine  had 
a  surprise.  After  all  the  day's  dressing  and 
singing,  she  had  planned  when  she  got  home  to 
put  on  her  new  costume  for  Erminie,  in  which 
she  was  to  sing  right  after  the  holidays,  to 
surprise  Mr.  Durant.  For  the  first  time  since 
Durant  had  been  calling  at  the  Sims'  flat  a 
maid  admitted  him,  and  in  the  kitchen  Aunt 
Mary  had  a  real  cook  preparing  the  din 
ner. 

The  rooms  were  full  of  roses.  There  were 
roses  scattered  everywhere  about.  It  was  a 
quarter  of  eight  when  she  came  from  her  room. 
But  when  she  pushed  aside  the  portieres  and 
stood  forth,  it  was  like  a  burst  of  light.  She 
looked  the  princess,  and,  as  she  stood,  she  was 
a  princess.  Then  she  pattered  through  the 
hall,  carrying  her  creamy  gown  as  she  half 
ran,  like  a  college  girl  masquerading. 

Durant  wore  evening  clothes.  She  broke 
into  a  little  laugh  as  he  took  her  hand.  "I 
didn't  suppose  you  were  going  to  dress  for 
this  dinner!" 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  were." 
112 


A   SONG  AND   AN   ACCOUNTING 

Aunt  Mary  looked  in.  "The  turkey  is 
served." 

"Then  the  honor,  I  trust,  is  mine?"  sug 
gested  Durant,  offering  his  arm  to  Katharine. 

Her  hair  left  high  in  her  stage  make-up  of 
the  afternoon  was  a  winning  brown,  and  her 
face  took  her  flushes  as  apples  take  sunshine. 
To  her  complexion  she  added  clear  eyes  and 
health.  She  was  sudden,  graceful,  and  her 
decollete  gown  would  take  one's  breath.  She 
won  from  Durant  his  deepest  bow — the  trib 
ute  of  one  skilled  in  beauty  to  a  child  that 
has  unconsciously  achieved  it.  With  a  pretty 
raillery,  a  raillery  without  words,  she  took 
his  arm.  When  he  seated  her  under  the  can 
dles  she  began  a  running  comment  of  opera- 
house  talk  that  followed  his  knife  over  and 
through  the  turkey  like  a  sauce. 

"And  that  isn't  the  worst  of  it,"  she  added, 
when  Durant  had  begun  to  eat  and  she  was 
finishing  an  account  of  her  troubles  with  the 
new  musical  director,  who  was  inclined  to 
keep  her  to  every  encore.  "I  have  an  admirer." 

"Many." 

113 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Oh,  now !    But  I  have  owe." 

"I  can  understand  it." 

"A  mysterious  admirer." 

"Mysterious  to  add  zest  like  this  gravy, 
Aunt  Mary.  Is  this  a  Virginia  gravy  I"  asked 
Durant. 

"Oh,  listen  to  the  comparison!  I've  heard 
of  women  being  called  geese — and  ducks — but 
I  never  heard  of  one  being  likened  to  a  tur 
key!  Oh,  now  please  stop.  You  needn't  try 
to  change  the  subject.  Don't  you  answer, 
Mariana.  He  sends  me  roses — always  the 
same — American  Beauty  roses — and  such 
quantities,  and  to-day — think  of  it!  That 
great  big,  lovely  centerpiece  of  them.  Auntie, 
unveil  the  centerpiece!" 

Katharine  had  contrived  to  bank  the  Christ 
mas  offering  of  flowers  into  a  huge  pyramid 
on  the  dinner-table,  and  had  thrown  over  it 
one  of  the  exquisitely  diaphanous  squares  of 
silk  from  the  chest.  She  reached  to  the  cen 
ter  of  the  table,  caught  a  corner  of  the  veiling, 
threw  it  back,  and  her  aunt  lifted  it  away  from 
the  flowers.  Durant  exclaimed  "Bravo !" 
114 


A   SONG  AND  AN  ACCOUNTING 

"I'm  beginning  to  study  effects,"  confessed 
Katharine. 

"You've  already  mastered  them." 

"But  look  at  him,  Auntie !  He  doesn't  even 
blush.  It's  a  total  failure.  I  expected  you 
would  be  overwhelmed  with  confusion,  and 
you're  not  a  bit." 

Durant  took  a  morsel  of  turkey  on  his 
fork.  "If  you'll  tell  me  what  to  do,  I'll 
do  it." 

"Tell  me  that  you  are  the  wretch  that  hides 
his  identity  from  a  maiden's  heart " 

"Is  that  fair?  Would  you  call  yourself  a 
wretch  to  oblige  me?" 

"Confess  you've  hedged  these  flowers  with 
mystery — sent  no  card,  no  word;  pledged 
your  slaves  to  silence,  prevented  in  every  way 
my  getting  at  the  truth." 

"If  you  say  so,  certainly.  I'm  not  going 
to  let  the  flowers  go  begging.  If  the  fellow 
that  sent  them  is  turkey  enough  to  hide  I'll 
take  the  credit  myself.  To  tell  the  truth,  I've 
been  expecting  you  to  thank  me.  Now  will 
you  let  me  alone?  Aunt  Mary,"  he  drawled, 
115 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"is  it  justice  to  your  dinner  to  involve  me  in 
frittering  discussions ?" 

They  had  never  spent  such  an  evening  to 
gether.  If  there  were  moments  of  reflection 
for  Durant,  that  made  the  blows  of  the  preced 
ing  month  harder  to  bear ;  no  trace  of  depres 
sion  passed  the  mask  of  his  feelings.  To  Kath 
arine's  spirit  he  was  a  foil,  alert  and  ready. 
When  it  grew  late,  and  with  the  resting  of  a 
wit  long  sustained,  quieter  topics  took  more 
of  the  talk,  their  hearts  opened  all  together 
to  reminiscent  moods — to  Durant's  early  ac 
quaintance  with  them,  and  to  Katharine's 
hard-earned  advancement.  He  was  thinking 
still  of  that — of  the  wonder  of  her  daring  and 
her  success  when  he  reached  his  empty  rooms. 


116 


CHAPTER   IX 

ROSES  AND   VIOLETS 

DURANT,  at  the  beginning  of  the  New  Year, 
on  which  he  wound  up  his  joint-account  con 
tracts  and  embarked  in  brokerage,  had  one 
intense,  definite  aim  in  his  affairs;  namely, 
to  put  on  its  feet  a  new  business — a  small, 
snug  business,  free  from  hazards  of  specula 
tion — to  do  this  with  the  utmost  celerity,  then 
to  ask  Katharine  Sims  to  become  his  wife. 
It  is  certain  that  he  went  about  his  new  plans 
with  the  method  and  thoroughness  that 
marked  all  his  business  efforts;  one  thing 
only  hampered  him — his  shattered  health.  In 
a  business  such  as  he  proposed,  his  own  per 
sonality  would  of  necessity  be  the  chief  factor 
in  success. 

As  soon  as  new  connections  could  be  formed 
117 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

George  Durant  was  out  on  the  street  with 
coffee  samples.  It  was  a  matter  somewhat 
of  street  talk,  for  Durant  had  not  carried  a 
sample  pan  to  a  buyer's  desk  in  many  years. 
Buyers  often  had  sought  him ;  now  he  sought 
the  buyers.  Breaking  into  the  new  work  was 
not  altogether  pleasant.  The  men  Durant  knew 
intimately  in  his  days  on  the  street  had  gone 
up-stairs  to  junior  partnerships  and  like  ad 
vanced  positions.  New  faces  and  younger 
men  sat  at  buyers'  desks  in  the  salesrooms  of 
the  larger  houses.  Durant  recalled  the  day 
when  the  head  of  each  house  bought  all  the 
staples  himself;  now  the  work  was  done  by 
boys — boys,  at  least,  to  him,  a  much  older 
man  than  those  whose  attention  and  favor  he 
sought  to  enlist.  Some  of  them  treated  him 
with  cordial  respect ;  some  were  flippant,  some 
busy,  some  short  in  their  interviews.  He  went 
about  conscientiously  to  the  big  houses  and 
to  the  small  ones.  In  one  of  the  latter  he  got 
a  cutting  thrust  from  a  wizened  old  foreigner, 
head  of  the  firm.  This  man  had  an  ancient 
grudge  against  Sloan-Durant.  In  a  dishon- 
118 


EOSES  AND  VIOLETS 

est  claim  for  damage  they  had,  years  before, 
convicted  him  of  cheating  and  disallowed  his 
demand.  He  leered  as  Durant  approached  his 
desk  and  spoke.  He  pointed  to  the  coif  ee  pans 
under  Durant's  arm.  "The  boys  lit  a  fire  un 
der  you,  hey  ?  Got  to  git  out  and  peddle.  Ha ! 
ha!  ha!  Veil,  how  goes  it,  Durant?  Vat  you 
got?" 

It  was  the  hyena's  only  chance  to  revenge 
the  old  affront — to  strike  at  the  wounded  lion 
— and  he  took  it  to  the  full.  Durant  knew  per 
fectly  well  what  to  expect.  He  knew  that  this 
commercial  thief  would  examine  with  scrupu 
lous  attention  every  pan  of  coffee  he  carried ; 
that  he  would  claw  the  berries,  compare  with 
pretended  interest,  ask  a  price — sneer  in  af 
fected  surprise — shake  his  head,  adjust  his 
spectacles  and  make  an  insulting  offer — half 
a  cent  below  the  market.  It  could  not  be 
helped;  thieves  sometimes  succeed;  their  af 
fairs  become  considerable.  It  is  part  of  the 
business,  Durant  reflected  as  he  walked  up  the 
street.  The  buyers  of  to-day,  not  those  of 
yesterday,  are  the  ones  that  must  be  reck- 
9  119 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

oned  with.  But  he  reflected  also  as  he  reached 
the  office  after  his  morning  round  that  he  had 
sold  no  coffee. 

After  a  day  of  work  such  as  this — of  con 
tinual  effort,  a  few  bags  of  coffee  sold,  fa 
tigue  and  sometimes  exhaustion — Durant  had 
for  the  evening  one  ever  fresh  stimulus,  one 
unfailing  delight :  a  seat  reserved  in  the  quiet 
of  the  DeVinne  parquet,  where  he  could  listen 
to  Katharine  Sims  in  any  one  of  the  round  of 
light  operas  that  Lawrence  gave  Chicago  that 
year.  With  legs  to  one  side  comfortably 
crossed,  arms  folded  over  his  full  chest,  head 
rather  back,  serious  eyes,  the  pupils  some 
what  wide,  Durant  would  sit,  on  Katharine's 
nights,  like  a  statue  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  the  play. 

Visibly  there  was  nothing  to  signalize  his 
interest,  unless,  indeed,  his  unvarying  quiet 
should  do  so ;  but  from  behind  his  folded  arms 
there  rose  continual  incense  to  the  woman  that 
he  loved  with  the  happiness  of  a  constantly 
growing  conviction  of  her  excellence  in  voice 
and  manner.  The  ensembles,  the  climaxes, 
120 


ROSES  AND  VIOLETS 

the  finales  in  which  she  led  became  to  Durant 
quivering  realities.  When  she  stood  forth  and 
raised  her  full,  penetrating  tones — when  her 
arms  swept  impulsively  out  to  point  a  sus 
tained  note — Durant  thrilled ;  it  lifted  him  out 
of  himself,  out  of  everything  around,  and  he 
would  go  to  his  room  recalling  one  expres 
sion  of  her  face  or  form — of  a  full,  round  arm 
carrying  her  sensitive  hand  raised  only  a 
little  from  her  side,  in  a  gesture  natural  to 
her  alone — and  if,  as  in  Erminie,  the  hand 
sparkled  with  some  of  his  old  rings  or  brace 
lets — spoil  of  the  travel  of  younger  days, 
which  he  had  forced  her  to  take  for  her  make 
ups — he  gave  himself  to  a  complete  happi 
ness  as  he  walked  out  into  the  night.  Much 
that  he  would  have  loved  to  do  for  her  in  the 
way  of  little  attentions  he  denied  himself,  un 
willing  that  it  should  even  be  remarked  he 
was  attentive. 

A  few  months   seemed  to  lift  Katharine 

from  obscurity.    The  papers  began  to  speak 

of  her ;  friends  began  to  come  to  her ;  enemies 

to  rise  up.    Each  evidence  of  budding  popu- 

121 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

larity,  in  turn,  presented  itself  in  one  brief 
season. 

During  the  Easter  holidays  a  run  of  the 
Grenadiers  was  put  on.  Crowded  houses  ruled 
for  the  entire  week.  College  men,  home  for  an 
outing,  made  the  most  of  the  DeVinne  gaiety, 
and  boxes  were  alive  with  Easter  girls  and 
brimming  boys  from  Yale  and  Harvard  and 
Princeton.  The  company  enjoyed  the  rout — • 
the  chatter  that  killed  their  duller  lines,  the 
hush  that  met  their  ensembles,  the  guying  for 
the  chorus,  the  uproarious  applause  for  the 
good  jokes  and  the  riotous  encores  for  the 
favorites.  To  Katharine  it  was  an  ovation. 
The  Easter  girls,  gay  in  flowered  hats,  and 
flaunting  college  colors,  took  up  Katharine. 
It  was  her  first  experience  with  unquench 
able  admirers;  genuine  young  people,  whose 
appetites  for  flowers  and  candy  and  for  her 
were  stout  beyond  palling.  One  box  on  the 
right  had  been  taken  the  entire  week  for 
Katharine's  nights  and  for  her  Saturday 
matine'e  by  a  party  of  Smith  College  girls, 
who  had  made  her  an  especial  fad  and  who 
122 


ROSES  AND  VIOLETS 

forced  their  young  men  to  behave  whenever 
Katharine  opened  her  mouth  to  sing.  Thurs 
day  night  the  three  girls  sent  a  note  in  to 
Katharine  asking  if  they  might  meet  her. 
Thursday  night,  after  singing  Wednesday, 
was  always  a  hard  night  for  Katharine. 
She  sent  word  that  if  they  would  wait  till  the 
Saturday  matine'e  she  would  see  them.  On 
Saturday  they  had  their  box  made  into  a 
bower  of  Smith  and  Yale  colors,  and  the  oc 
cupants  were  as  lively  as  the  decorations. 

At  the  curtain  after  the  second  act,  which 
closes  with  the  famous  ballroom  scene,  the 
assistant  stage-manager,  entering  the  box, 
told  the  young  ladies  that  if  they  would  follow 
him  Miss  Sims  would  be  pleased  to  see  them 
for  a  few  moments.  The  leader  of  the  three 
girls,  Bessie  Ross,  a  tall,  dancing-eyed  miss, 
sprang  up.  "Oh,  thank  you.  Come  on,  girls, 
quick.  Come,  George,  and  you,  too,  Mr.  Cook, 
come  on." 

To  schoolgirls  the  mere  crossing  of  the 
threshold  that  leads  behind  the  stage  is  awe 
some.  As  they  followed  their  guide  fast 
123 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

among  the  shifters  and  helpers  and  elec 
tricians  and  stray  groups  of  chorus  girls  and 
men,  the  trip  became  wildly  exciting  to  them. 
The  very  haste,  the  confusion,  the  bewilder 
ment  of  costumes  and  suspenders  and  shirt 
sleeves,  the  babel  of  the  strange  and  unfa 
miliar,  led  their  expectations  in  leaps  and 
bounds  up  to  the  meeting  of  the  woman  for 
whom  this  whole  infernal  din  and  excitement 
existed — the  star — Katharine  Sims. 

As  they  approached  she  started  from  under 
an  electric  lamp,  just  as  she  had  left  the  stage. 
Bessie  Ross  ran  up  with  hands  extended.  "It 
is  so  good  of  you  1"  she  cried.  "This  is  Alice 
Carpenter  and  this  is  Julia  Carpenter " 

"Sisters  f  smiled  Katharine. 

"No,  not  a  bit  of  it.  That's  the  joke — no 
relation  at  all,  and  everybody  says  they  look 
so  much  alike;  but  they're  both  Smith  girls, 
and  so  am  I,  and,  oh,  we  saw  your  Smith  col 
ors  at  the  guards'  ball ;  wasn't  that  nice  of  you, 
and  did  you  see  our  "box  T  Did  you  1  Isn't  it 
right  pretty  now,  and  we've  been  here  every 

time  you've  sung  this  week " 

124 


KOSES  AND  VIOLETS 

"And,  oh!  we  think  you  sing  divinely," 
broke  in  Alice,  "and  we're  not  going  to  start 
back  till  Tuesday." 

"So  we  can  hear  you  sing  Monday  night, 
and  there's  a  whole  lot  more  of  Smith  girls 
will  be  here!"  exclaimed  Julia.  "And  we've 
taken  two  whole  rows  in  the  orchestra  for 
them — "  said  Bessie  Boss.  "Because  we 
couldn't  get  boxes  enough,"  explained  Julia, 
"You're  so  fearfully  popular,"  laughed  Alice. 
"And,  oh,  girls,  we  haven't  presented " 

"The  men,"  exclaimed  Bessie,  turning,  "I 
declare  I  completely " 

Katharine,  smiling  before  the  torrent,  inter 
posed  a  protest.  "But  I  didn't  understand 
there  were  to  be  men.  I  don't  receive  men  in 
make-up,  my  dears." 

"Dear  Miss  Sims,  it's  only  brother  George 
and  little  Mr.  Cook." 

"Oh." 

"You  needn't  speak  to  them ;  just  let  them 
bow,  wonft  you,  please?    Miss  Sims,  this  is 
Mr.  Cook  and  this  brother  George.    Brother 
George,  do  step  forward,  please." 
125 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

Mr.  Cook,  cursed  with  the  frank  epithet  of 
little,  did  not  quite  deserve  it ;  he  was  young 
rather  than  little,  and  came  in  so  quickly  with 
his  "Very  pleased  indeed  to  meet  you,"  that 
one  couldn't  be  angry.  "I  think  you're  simply 
fine,  Miss  Sims !"  he  exclaimed,  putting  out  a 
boyish  hand.  "Christmas  I  saw  you  in  Er- 
minie  and  I  saw  your  Yum " 

"And  this  is  brother  George,"  burst  Bessie, 
pushing  away  little  Mr.  Cook. 

Brother  George  made  the  best  of  an  em 
barrassment  by  walking  forward.  He  was 
tall  and  slight,  with  a  large  nose  and  a  fringe 
of  mustache  above  his  thin  lip.  It  was  the 
slight  spring  of  deference  in  his  step  as  he 
approached  that  saved  his  life.  Katharine 
felt  she  could  hardly  snub  that  kind  of  def 
erence. 

His  forbearing  manner  and  hesitating 
promptness  even  made  her  conscious  of  her 
high  rouge  and  greased  brows  and  thickened 
lips.  "Brother  George,  Miss  Sims,"  ventured 
George  himself,  "is  aware,  even  if  his  sister 
isn't,  that  he  has  no  sort  of  business  here.  I 
126 


ROSES  AND  VIOLETS 

suppose  an  intrusion  should  never  be  apolo 
gized  for,  but  having  been  a  Smith  College 
girl  yourself,"  he  added,  nodding  at  her  col 
ors,  "you  know,  I'm  sure,  how  they  boss  their 
brothers " 

"Oh,  Miss  Sims  isn't  a  Smith,  Brother 
George.  She's  just  complimenting  us,  wear 
ing  the  colors,"  corrected  Bessie. 

"I  think  Miss  Sims,  if  you  put  it  in  that 
way,  is  a  Smith." 

"Oh,  no,  she  isn't." 

"On  that  I  venture  to  appeal  to  the  highest 
authority,"  he  contended,  mildly,  indicating 
by  his  look  that  Miss  Sims  herself  could  an 
swer. 

"Am  I  to  try  to  recall  you  among  the  fac 
ulty,  Mr.  Boss  V '  she  asked. 

He  lifted  his  hand.  "Though  my  hair  is 
thin,  my  years  even  yet  do  not  put  me  among 
the  great." 

"I'm  sure  you  were  not  a  classmate." 

"No.  But  your  father,  Doctor  Sims,  was  a 
friend  of  my  mother's,  and  once  when  home 
from  the  Tech  I  heard  him  speak  of  a  daugh- 
127 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

ter  of  his  being  home  from  Smith.  And  I 
think  you  have  no  sisters,  Miss  Sims?" 

"Why,  brother  George,  you  never  told  me !" 

"You  never  asked  me." 

"Aren't  men  mean,  Miss  Sims !"  cried  Bes 
sie.  "Oh,  if  you  are  a  Smith,  won't  you  give 
us  your  photograph  to  take  back  with  us !  The 
girls  will  turn  green  with  envy." 

"Oh,  won't  you!"  cried  Alice  and  Julia. 

"Oh,  Miss  Sims,"  struggled  little  Mr.  Cook, 
earnestly,  "if  you'll  give  me  one  for  Yale  the 
fellows  will  throw  fits.  I'll  promise  to  write 
my  next  thesis  on  it ;  indeed  I  will." 

Brother  George  did  not  join  in  the  joking. 
He  was  older,  and,  in  spite  of  his  retiring  way, 
he  was  in  effect  taking  a  place  beside  Kath 
arine  merely  by  keeping  quiet;  the  sense  of 
companionship  in  his  manner  made  it  embar 
rassing  for  her.  She  could  not  help  thinking 
how  her  bedizened  face  must  look  to  this  un 
obtrusive  and  tolerably  well-informed  mem 
ber  of  the  party. 

"I'm  glad  to  meet  Smith  girls — and  Yale 
men, ' '  said  Katharine,  shutting  off  every  one ; 
128 


ROSES  AND  VIOLETS 

then,  by  sort  of  complusion,  "and  any  who 
remember  my  father — "  meeting  brother 
George's  eye  with  such  frank  independence 
as  she  could  through  her  penciled  lashes.  He 
bowed.  "And,"  she  added,  turning  again  to 
the  chatterers,  "you  will  all  come  to  see  me 
again,  sometime,  won't  you!" 

"Oh,  that  means,  'run  away,  little  dears !'  " 
exclaimed  young  Mr.  Cook,  wryly;  "I  know 
that  much." 

"Time  flies  so,"  added  Katharine,  unmoved. 
"See,  the  stage  is  nearly  set,  and  I  have  a 
change  yet." 

In  a  corner  near  them  rose  a  violent  dis 
pute  among  three  women  in  tights. 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  the  girls. 

"Might  I  properly  offer  to  arbitrate  ?"  whis 
pered  Mr.  Cook,  who  was  just  coming  into  his 
own. 

"Don't  mind  them,"  said  Katharine,  wear 
ily.  "They  fight  every  time  Mr.  Cory's  back 
is  turned.  There  he  comes  now — see  how  they 
subside.  If  you  must  go,  Mr.  Cory  will  guide 
you  back." 

129 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

The  girls  were  already  saying  good-by ;  but 
after  dismissing  them  Katharine  used  the 
gracious  trick  of  holding  them  a  trifle  longer 
— cordial  envoy  to  the  brief  visit;  then, 
through  the  confusion,  she  sent  them,  wild 
with  excitement,  back  to  their  box. 

In  the  evening  the  girls  from  Smith  had 
quite  another  affair  on  hand.  They  were 
chasing  like  butterflies  after  other  flowers  in 
other  fields — a  Harvard  Glee  Club  concert  at 
Central  Music  Hall — with  young  Mr.  Cook, 
and  others  young,  of  the  party.  Their  gay 
box  at  the  DeVinne,  stripped  of  Smith  plu 
mage,  was  dim  that  Saturday  night,  although 
Katharine  entered  and  spoke  and  pointed 
and  grew  defiant  and  laughed  and  sang  and 
danced  just  as  before.  The  box  was  dark  as 
usual,  but  in  its  recesses  sat  a  lone  young 
man,  making  no  fuss  whatever — Brother 
George.  When  Katharine  was  called  out  at 
the  close  of  the  first  act  several  offerings  of 
flowers  went  forward  to  her,  among  them  a 
basket  of  violets ;  but  George  Ross,  applaud 
ing  mildly  in  the  storm  that  rose  from  the 
130 


ROSES  AND  VIOLETS 

audience,  took  no  special  note  of  that,  though 
Katharine  did  find,  tucked  among  the  violets, 
his  card.  Beside  the  basket  on  her  dressing- 
room  table  there  lay  the  great  bunch  of  roses 
that  had  come  that  night  as  they  came  so  often 
to  her.  She  looked,  through  habit,  to  see  if, 
at  last,  they  bore  a  card;  but  to-night,  as 
always,  the  roses,  green-stemmed,  thorny, 
dewy,  silent,  were  nameless. 


131 


CHAPTER   X 

GEORGE  ROSS 

AFTER  their  late  dinner  the  next  day,  a 
bright  Sunday,  Katharine  walked  with  her 
aunt  in  Dearborn  Avenue.  Something  of 
spring  even  in  the  chill  air  of  the  April  sun 
had  tempted  the  carriages  from  winter  quar 
ters,  and  the  rumble  of  summer's  advance 
guard,  bound  north  for  the  Park,  filled  the 
street. 

Katharine  was  talking  with  Aunt  Mary 
about  her  irrepressible  boxful  of  college  girls, 
and  of  Brother  George,  alone  in  the  box  the 
night  before.  Aunt  Mary  had  begun  trying, 
as  she  had  been  trying  all  day,  to  recall  just 
who  the  Boss's  were  when  a  gentleman,  ap 
proaching,  bowed.  Katharine  returned  his 
greeting.  After  that  she  couldn't  remember 
132 


GEORGE  ROSS 

introductions  or  anything  else  until  the  three 
were  talking  all  at  once;  then  she  was  con 
scious  of  thinking  of  George  Boss's  nose.  He 
had  asked  permission  to  turn  back.  He  was 
walking  with  them,  and  his  nose  had  become, . 
in  the  course  of  the  conversation,  curiously  a 
part  of  it.  Brother  George's  nose  was  at  the 
start  courteously  deferential ;  presently  mildly 
benevolent;  then  it  went  with  his  voice  into 
action.  It  laughed  queerly  and  alone,  down 
in  the  corners,  when  he  said  dry  things.  And 
when  he  himself  laughed,  the  point  of  his  nose 
drew  oddly  down  over  the  smile  like  a  high- 
humored  benediction.  It  was  the  effect  that 
might  be  imagined  if  a  bird  were  to  laugh,  an 
eagle,  Katharine  thought;  provided  an  eagle 
could  ever  be  persistently  good-natured  and 
disinterestedly  attentive. 

Meantime  Aunt  Mary  Sims,  asserting  her 
self  for  the  first  time  in  three  sad,  long  years, 
brushing  up  her  memory  for  the  first  time 
since  her  brother  had  died,  was  trying  earnest 
ly  to  recall  this  Mr.  Ross,  who  so  insisted  on 
knowing  her. 

133 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"I  have  been  at  your  house  twice  that  I  re 
member,"  averred  Eoss.  "Both  times  with 
father.  Once" — his  nose  began  to  pucker  as 
he  walked  enough  in  advance  to  speak  to  both 
— "you,  Miss  Sims,  had  been  having  a  birth 
day  party.  Hadn't  you  a  cousin  or  some 
thing,  a  boy,  visiting  you  one  summer  from 
the  South?" 

"Hammie  Neil !"  cried  Aunt  Mary,  looking 
at  Ross  as  if  he  were  a  mind  reader. 

"Neil — I  think  that  was  the  name." 

"Oh,  he  was  a  mischief.  Poor  Hammie, 
he's  never  been  back." 

"Well,  he  struck  up  a  great  friendship  with 
the  Lightner  boys ;  they  lived  right  through 
from  us  on  Calumet  Avenue.  Father  called 
one  day  to  see  Dr.  Sims  about  some  paving 
matter  or  other " 

"Special  assessments!"  exclaimed  Aunt 
Mary,  with  a  heart-breaking  roll  of  her  eyes ; 
but  Ross's  nose  kept  right  on. 

"You  had  just  had  a  little  girls'  party — and 
an  accident.  Do  you  remember?" 

"Katharine  had  so  many  parties,"  sug- 
134 


GEORGE  ROSS 

gested  Aunt  Mary,  with  a  touch  of  Virginia 
artfulness,  while  still  endeavoring  to  recol 
lect. 

"No  doubt,  but  this  time  you  had  an  acci 
dent,"  amiably  persisted  Ross.  Aunt  Mary 
shook  her  head.  "Your  freezer  of  ice-cream 
disappeared  from  the  back  porch." 

Aunt  Mary  Sims  and  Katharine  exclaimed 
together.  Ross  laughed  eagle-fashion.  "You 
were  telling  father  about  the  outrage,  and  I 
was  sitting  by  in  the  terror  of  my  life." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  took  that 
freezer  of  ice-cream  f  gasped  Aunt  Mary. 

"It  is  time,  I  think,  to  be  brave,  Miss  Sims," 
said  Ross,  appealing  to  Katharine.  "I  didn't 
take  it ;  it  was  long  the  regret  of  my  life  that 
I  was  at  dancing-school  when  the  job  was 
done.  Hammie,  if  that's  his  name — he  posed 
among  the  boys  as  an  ex-Confederate — Ham 
mie  and  the  Lightner  boys  did  the  job,  as  they 
called  it  professionally,  and  I  was  called  in 
only  to  help  eat  the  cream  after  it  had  been 
hidden  in  the  hay  up  in  the  Lightner  barn. 
They  had  a  sort  of  palace  barn,  don't  you 
10  135 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

know,  and  there  was  a  neighborhood  row 
about  its  facing  on  Harvard  Place." 

Aunt  Mary  appeared  stunned.  Boss 
laughed  mildly,  and  Katharine  was  growing 
interested.  She  studied  Ross.  "Oh,  I  remem 
ber  that  so  well,"  she  exclaimed.  "And  how 
hard  I  cried.  And  the  time  we  had  getting 
more." 

"It  was  an  outrage,  but  boys  are  savages. 
I  paid  up  for  it.  I  was  sick  for  a  week.  I 
thought  I  was  going  to  die.  The  cream  was 
full  of  hayseed  and  stuff  when  I  got  to  it,  but 
I  didn't  dare  tell  for  fear  your  father  would 
be  called  in  to  prescribe  and  I  should  be 
forced  to  confess.  Don't  you  remember 
my  being  there  when  you  told  father  that 
night?" 

"I  suppose  I  was  too  excited  to  remember," 
admitted  Aunt  Mary.  Ross  appeared  loath 
to  continue,  but  determined  to  carry  his  point 
of  identification.  "The  second  time  I  called 
you  will  certainly  remember,"  he  declared. 
"Among  the  various  wickednesses  of  the 
Lightner  following  that  I  mixed  in  was  tying 
136 


GEORGE  KOSS 

up  one  of  the  boys,  leaving  Mm  on  some  one's 
doorstep,  ringing  the  bell,  and  running.  When 
the  people  came  to  the  door  the  boy  that  was 
tied  would  tell  his  tale  of  woe  about  being 
assaulted,  beaten,  and  gagged  by  wicked  boys 
from  the  Patch,  and  he  would  get  sympathy 
and  cake.  One  day  I  was  'it.'  They  tied  me  up 
and  left  me  at  your  door,  Miss  Sims,"  he  said, 
addressing  Aunt  Mary,  "  and  you  took  me  up, 
wretch  that  I  was,  and  poured  oil  on  my 
wounds  and  gave  me  a  glass  of  wine  and 
three  doughnuts  before  you  sent  me  home." 

Aunt  Mary  halted.    "Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  you  were  that  boy?"  she  ejaculated. 

' '  I  hope  this  late  confession  may  be  of  some 
avail?" 

"But  that  was  a  little  bit  of  a  boy." 

"It  was  twelve  years  ago — I  was  only  thir 
teen.  We  came  to  grief  once,  though,"  Mr. 
Eoss  went  on,  candidly.  "We  tied  Hammie 
up  and  left  him  on  Mr.  Lightner's  steps,  and 
the  old  gentlemen  came  out;  but  he  had  been 
worked  once  too  often  and  he  kicked  poor 
Hammie  all  the  way  down  to  the  sidewalk." 
137 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Such  boys  as  they  had  in  that  neighbor 
hood!" 

"Do  you  remember  me  now?" 

"You  must  be  Mrs.  Birney  Ross's  son." 

Mr.  Ross  lifted  his  hands  and  his  nose 
wagged.  "  'I  am,  I  am,'  as  the  Filipino  says 
in  the  Grenadiers." 

"Your  father  died " 

"Yes." 

"And  didn't  your  mother  go  abroad?" 

"Yes.  I  was  put  at  school  in  Glasgow. 
Mother  died  in  England.  We  have  been  back 
in  Chicago  two  years ;  my  older  sister  Julia, 
and  Bessie  and  I.  I  left  Philadelphia  six 
months  ago,  and  am  back  to  Chicago  to  stay, 
I  hope." 

"Are  you  in  business  here,  Mr.  Ross  f " 

"I'm  a  part  of  the  deadly  trolley  system." 

"Not— you  don't " 

"Not  a  conductor,  exactly — no " 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that " 

"I'm  a  sort  of  motorman ;  I  am  the  slave  of 
a  large  corporation.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  both 
how  much  my  sister  Julia  has  been  interested 
138 


GEORGE  ROSS 

in  hearing  of  your  great  success  on  the  stage, 
Miss  Sims,  and  how  much  she  wants  to  meet 
both  you  and  your  aunt." 

"Thank  you." 

"She  would  like  ever  so  much  to  call  on 
you." 

"We  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  your  sister." 

"We  live  on  the  North  Side  now — over  in 
Bellevue  Place." 

"Oh,  how  nice,"  said  Katharine,  "so  many 
have  moved  to  the  North  Side  in  the  last  few 
years.  There  are  so  many  South  Side  people 
on  the  North  Side  now." 

"That  is  very  true,  though  it  wasn't  social 
considerations  that  moved  sister  Julia;  she 
is  very  much  of  a  stayer.  The  North  Side  is 
much  handier  for  my  work.  Julia  is  going  to 
hear  you  sing  to-morrow  night,"  added  Ross 
to  Katharine. 

"You  must  thank  her  for  me  for  her  inter 
est." 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  be  intrusted  with  any 
sort  of  a  message  from  you."  At  the  second 
corner  and  at  the  third  Katharine  thought  he 
139 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

would  leave,  but  he  followed  them  all  the  way 
home,  lively,  humorous,  interested  and  inter 
esting. 

"Can  he  really  be  a  motormanf  whispered 
Aunt  Mary,  as  Ross  walked  tall  and  lightly 
down  the  street. 

"Wood  violets  at  Easter  are  something  of  a 
luxury  for  a  motorman,"  suggested  Kath 
arine.  "Didn't  he  say  he  was  a  sort  of  motor 
man?" 

As  her  brother  had  said  she  would,  Miss 
Julia  Boss,  though  something  of  an  invalid, 
called  on  Katharine  and  her  aunt,  and  left 
with  them  not  only  the  remembrances  of  her 
own  unaffected  sweetness,  but  of  the  impres 
sion  made  on  the  neighbors  by  the  Ross  coupe 
and  the  Ross  team  and  the  Ross  coachman, 
for  they  were  all  unexceptionable,  and  they 
stood  at  the  curb  a  long  time.  The  growing 
interest  of  society  people  so  well  known  as 
the  Ross's  was  a  foretaste  of  what  real  suc 
cess  would  be  like  among  old  acquaintances, 
and  Katharine,  quite  wrought,  told  Aunt  Mary 
at  dinner  that  they  must  and  should  have  a 
140 


GEORGE  BOSS 

divan  for  the  front  room  at  once,  and  that 
that  old  leather  chair  of  her  father's  must  go 
into  the  back  hall  for  good.  Aunt  Mary,  in 
Katharine's  eyes,  had  but  one  fault.  She  had 
lived  on  the  Shenandoah  when  Sheridan 
raided  the  valley,  and  though  the  purse  was 
now  filling  fast  she  hung  to  the  strings  with 
the  vigor  of  an  ex-Confederate. 

Julia  Ross  did  not  let  the  acquaintance  end 
with  a  formal  call.  She  proved  her  interest 
in  the  various  ways  that  a  woman  under 
stands,  and  George  Ross,  who  to  satisfy  Aunt 
Mary,  confessed  to  being  an  electrical  engi- 
ner  in  charge  of  the  Motive  Power  of  the 
United  Traction  Companies,  rarely  let  a  week 
go  by  without  breaking  into  it  somehow  with 
a  reminder  that  he  was  living  four  squares 
away — though  Aunt  Mary  could  never  figure 
the  squares  at  less  than  seven.  However,  as 
Julia  Ross  asked  permission  to  send  the  car 
riage  on  the  day  that  she  gave  a  tea  in  honor 
of  Katharine,  Aunt  Mary  did  not  have  to  walk 
the  distance,  anyway. 

But  no  matter  how  George  Ross  figured  dis- 
141 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

tance,  he  was  a  good  story-teller.  Between 
drumming  at  the  piano,  which  he  liked  to  do, 
and  telling  dry  anecdotes  about  people  in 
whom  every  one  is  interested — the  people  that 
every  one  knows  in  the  prints,  but  that  George 
knew  by  right  of  family  and  position — in  these 
ways  he  could  make  the  hours  fly  like  his 
dynamos. 

If  there  had  been  an  affair  in  North  Side 
society  it  usually  leaked  out  in  the  course  of  a 
following  evening  either  that  George  had  been 
there  or  that  he  knew  something  droll  about 
it.  Then,  too,  George  had  become  confirmed 
in  the  DeVinne  habit  and  could  counterfeit  a 
professional  in  talking  parts  and  presen 
tations. 

When  the  school  year  ended  in  June  a 
change  had  already  come  over  the  relations  of 
the  Bosses  and  the  Simses.  And  when  sister 
Bessie  came  home  from  school,  got  to  the 
opera-house  and  to  the  coveted  corner  be 
hind  the  scenes,  she,  without  ado,  threw  her 
arms  around  Katharine's  neck  and  kissed  her 
like  a  little  whirlwind — every  one  had  become 
142 


GEORGE  BOSS 

such  good  friends  with  every  one.  Something 
else,  too,  happened  that  night.  George  Koss 
and  Bessie  rode  home  with  Katharine  in  her 
carriage.  She  asked  them  in;  they  refused 
positively  to  get  in,  and  shortly  got  in,  send 
ing  their  carriage  home.  George,  being  tall, 
lighted  the  gas.  Aunt  Mary,  fresh  from  her 
nap,  came  forward,  blinking  her  smile.  Kath 
arine  threw  her  heavy  cloak  on  a  chair  and  an 
nounced  openly  that  she  was  starved,  but  not 
before  George  Ross  had  taken  the  cloak  up, 
the  cloak  he  got  his  hands  on  every  time  he 
could,  and  hung  it  in  the  hall. 

"How's  your  headache,  Aunt  Mary"?"  asked 
Katharine.  "Auntie  had  trouble  with  the 
cook  to-night,"  Katharine  explained  to  Bessie 
Ross,  as  she  settled  back  in  her  chair — Bessie 
had  been  placed  on  the  new  divan — "and  it 
gave  her  a  headache." 

"I  hope  you  gave  the  cook  something 
worse,"  suggested  Ross. 

"I  discharged  her,"  announced  Aunt  Mary, 
with  as  near  a  gleam  of  wickedness  as  ever 
crossed  her  eyes. 

143 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Oh,  did  you?"  cried  Katharine,  dismayed. 

"I  did." 

"But  I  didn't  know  that — what  are  we  to  do 
for  something  to  eat?" 

"I'll  attend  to  that,"  said  Aunt  Mary. 

"But  you  sha'n't."  Katharine  rose. 
"You're  half  sick  yourself." 

"Oh,  let  you  and  I  get  it,  Miss  Sims," 
cried  Bessie;  "that  will  be  fun." 

"Let  me  get  it,"  put  in  Eoss,  "and  it  will  be 
tragedy." 

'  *  Come  in,  then ;  we  will  all  get  it, ' '  decided 
Katharine,  pushing  her  aunt  good-humoredly 
back.  "It  will  be  a  frolic." 

"And  very  little  else,  if  you  manage  it," 
predicted  Aunt  Mary,  frankly. 

The  pantry  was  scoured  for  provender. 

"There  is  some  cheese,"  called  Katharine. 

"And  plenty  of  bread,"  added  Bessie  Eoss, 
who  already  had  her  lawn  skirt  pinned  up 
rather  wildly. 

"How  about  pief '  asked  George  Eoss  from 
the  dark  of  the  dining-room. 

"There  isn't  a  crust,"  said  Katharine.  "I 
144 


GEORGE  ROSS 

declare,  it  does  look  slim,  but  there  are  air- 
tights,  as  the  Grenadiers  say." 

"Air-tights?" 

"Canned  things,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  George,  you  cook  something,"  cried  his 
sister. 

"I  have  offered  to " 

"But  what  can  you  cook?"  demanded  Kath 
arine. 

"Anything." 

"Confidence!    What  can  you  cook  well?" 

"Nothing." 

"I  thought  so." 

"But  if  you're  game,"   declared  Brother 
George,  "I'll  try  a  Golden  Buck." 

"He  makes  them  lovely."    With  the  assur 
ance,  Bessie  clapped  her  hands. 

"But  what  is  Golden  Buck?"  asked  Kath 
arine.    "It  sounds  dreadfully  masculine." 

"Have  you  a  chafing-dish?"  asked  Ross. 

"Here." 

"Beer?" 

"No." 

"Eggs?" 

145 


THE   CLOSE   OF  THE   DAY 

"Not  very  fresh  eggs,"  confessed  Aunt 
Mary. 

"Cheese!" 

"Yes." 

"Bread!" 

"Yes." 

"If  you'll  cut  the  bread,  slice  the  cheese, 
and  fill  the  alcohol  lamp,"  directed  George, 
"I'll  get  the  beer  at  the  corner  and  be  back 
before  you  are  ready." 

"Oh,  you're  not  going  after  beer!"  Kath 
arine  protested. 

"Never  mind  him — he  does  these  things 
regularly,"  interposed  Bessie  Boss,  as  her 
brother  made  for  the  hall  and  slipped  into  his 
coat 

"Don't  say  a  word;  wait  till  you  taste  my 
Buck,"  he  called,  closing  the  vestibule  door. 

"He's  the  queerest  fellow,"  laughed  Bessie. 
"There  was  a  man  in  State  Street,  at  an  alley 
corner  right  near  us,  that  had  a  night  stand — 
closed  in  with  a  sash,  you  know — just  big 
enough  to  stand  up  and  cook  things  in.  George 
often  is  out  till  twelve  o'clock  at  the  power- 
146 


GEORGE  ROSS 

house,  and  last  winter  he  used  to  stop  at  that 
disreputable  place  and  bring  home  his  over 
coat  pockets  full  of — what  do  you  think?" 

"I  can't  imagine." 

"Broiled  chicken — true  as  I'm  alive.  George 
said  the  man  could  broil  chicken  a  good  deal 
better  than  our  cook  could.  And  the  two  be 
came  great  friends;  they  did,  and  in  the 
spring  George  gave  him  a  place  in  the  power 
house,  sent  him  to  night-school  and " 

Katharine  filled  the  chafing-dish  burner. 
"Made  an  electrician  of  him." 

"Bless  you — no !"  exclaimed  Bessie,  with  all 
possible  emphasis.  "That's  what  I  thought 
he'd  do  with  him " 

"Well,  what?" 

"Made  a  cook  of  him ;  and  he's  cooking  for 
us  now;  yes,  indeed.  His  name  is  Peter — 
Peter  something." 

"Did  he  cook  that  luncheon  for  Katharine?" 
whispered  Aunt  Mary,  listening. 

"He  did." 

"I  never  tasted  such  sweetbreads  in  my; 
life, ' '  declared  Katharine,  with  candor. 
147 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Oh,  that  wasn't  sweetbreads — that  was1 
veal  fricassee." 

Katharine  raised  her  brows.  "No  wonder 
I  never  tasted  such  sweetbreads.  Whatever 
it  was,  it  was  delicious." 

"I'll  tell  him,  because  George  lectured  him 
till  he  was  scared  to  death  about  that  lun 
cheon." 

"Now,"  said  Katharine,  reaching  for  a  piece 
of  cheese,  "we're  all  ready;  why  doesn't  Mr. 
Ross  comef ' 

He  was  gone  an  unconscionably  long  time. 
After  a  wait  he  returned,  somewhat  flushed, 
but  triumphant,  with  four  bottles  of  beer, 
which  he  deposited  upon  the  table.  He  took 
off  his  overcoat  carefully,  and  from  various 
parts  of  his  dinner  coat  and  trousers  produced 
six  eggs,  and,  heedless  of  the  questions  shot  at 
him,  put  them  beside  the  beer. 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  me.  At  a  delicate 
problem  I  never  talk.  Miss  Aunt  Mary,  will 
you  kindly  rustle  a  corkscrew?  Say,  Bess, 
you  might  be  toasting  the  bread." 

"And  what  am  I  to  dof  asked  Katharine. 
148 


GEORGE    ROSS 

"Quit  eating  the  cheese,  if  you  please.  I'll 
have  something  worth  while  in  about  five 
minutes.  By  the  way,  you  may  get  two  or 
three  muffin  rings  to  poach  the  eggs  in.  And 
when  that  water  is  hot  you  may  poach  the 
eggs." 

"Where  did  you  get  the  eggs?"  asked  Aunt 
Mary,  back  with  the  corkscrew. 

"At  the  saloon.  You  can  always  get  fresh 
eggs  at  a  saloon  or  a  barber-shop — there's  a 
tip  for  you — provided  you  stand  in ;  they  have 
to  have  them  fresh  in  their  business,"  ex 
plained  Ross,  drawing  a  cork.  Things  went 
forward  amazingly.  Ross  emptied  the  plate 
of  cheese  into  the  chafing-dish,  salted  and  pep 
pered  like  a  chef,  tumbled  in  square  after 
square  of  butter,  drenched  the  mixture  again 
and  again  with  beer  and  stirred  judiciously 
with  a  fork. 

"This  is  all  I  learned  at  Yale,"  he  replied 
to  a  question  of  Katharine's.  "New  Haven 
beats  the  world  on  Golden  Buck.  There's 
nothing  on  earth  like  a  chafing-dish,  is  there— 
except  two  chafing-dishes.  Look  at  it  cream, 
149 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

Now,  Miss  Sims,"  said  he  to  Katharine,  "if 
you  would  kindly  drop  in  the  first  egg." 

In  no  time  under  his  active  management 
four  Bucks  were  smoking  on  four  plates. 
"This  is  for  the  commonwealth  of  Virginia," 
announced  Ross,  pushing  the  first  at  Aunt 
Mary.  He  passed  the  second  to  Katharine 
with  a  nod  of  deference.  "This  is  especially 
for  the  chest  tones,  Miss  Sims ;  unequaled  for 
the  smoothness  of  the  middle  register.  This 
is  for  happy  dreams,  Bess — and  this — for  that 
trolley  feeling,"  he  concluded,  sitting  down  at 
the  table  before  the  fourth. 

"But  what  am  I — how  are  we  to  eat 
these !"  asked  Katharine. 

"Moisten  the  lips  and  close  them  gently 
over  the  first  mouthful,  Miss  Sims — after  that 
it's  like  an  alternating  current:  one  bite  of 
Buck,  one  moment  of  ecstasy.  Absolutely. 
Try  it." 

They  chaffed  and  ate  and  laughed  for  an 
hour. 

"We  must  go  home,  George,"  suggested  Bes 
sie  Boss. 

150 


GEOEGE  BOSS 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Katharine. 

"It  must  be  after  twelve,"  insisted  Bessie. 
"What's  the  time,  George  f ' 

"The  best  I  ever  had  in  my  life,"  said 
George,  openly. 

"Look  at  your  watch,"  commanded  his  sis 
ter. 

"I  haven't  any." 

"Why,  George  Ross,  what  do  you  mean? 
You  had  it  at  the  opera.  You've  lost  it !"  she 
cried. 

"Why  must  you  expose  me  before  friends'?" 
protested  her  brother.  "I  put  up  my  watch 
for  this  beer."  There  was  a  chorus  of  cries 
from  the  women.  "I'm  telling  the  truth,"  he 
insisted.  "I  thought  I  might  be  permitted  to 
be  a  hero  without  publishing  it.  After  I  left 
the  saloon  I  was  coming  around  the  corner 
with  my  pockets  full  of  eggs  and  my  arms  full 
of  beer  when  a  man  put  his  arm  around  my 
neck  from  behind  and  asked  what  time  it  was. 
While  I  was  trying  to  decide,  another  man, 
apparently  in  a  hurry,  snatched  my  watch  to 
see  for  himself  and  incidentally  swiped  my 
11  151 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

money.  Then  they  tried  to  gobble  the  beer. 
I  wouldn't  have  said  a  word  about  the  rest, 
but  the  beer  I  wanted,  and  on  that  issue  we 
mixed  up.  When  the  pace  got  pretty  hot  I 
had  to  throw  two  bottles  at  the  pirates  to  save 
the  other  four.  Jettisoning  the  cargo  to  that 
extent  I  kept  all  the  eggs." 

"Why,  George!" 

"Every  one.  When  the  first  man  hugged 
me  he  smashed  them,  and  I  had  to  go  to  a 
drug  store  and  wash  up  and  get  six  new  ones 
on  credit — that 's  what  kept  me  so  long.  Why 
get  excited?" 


152 


CHAPTER    XI 

A     WOMAN     BETWEEN 

THE  closing  night  at  the  DeVinne  was  the 
wind-up  of  a  big  season  and  the  company  was 
tired  and  happy.  For  one  night  differences 
were  overlooked,  quarrels  forgotten.  Law 
rence  was  smiling,  jubilant ;  no  more  reproofs  ; 
no  more  mysterious  frowns.  It  was  the  last 
night ;  to-morrow  the  house  would  be  deserted, 
chill,  smelling  of  emptiness,  of  faded  hang 
ings,  of  shabby  plush.  But  to-night  the  old 
house  was  alive;  it  sparkled,  trembled, 
hummed  with  gaiety,  and  rang  with  song.  It 
was  dying  bravely,  breathing  life  out  in  one 
last  blaze  of  glory. 

The  opera  was  presented  with  an  all-star 
cast,  an  augmented  orchestra,  souvenirs  for 
the  audience,  double  checks  for  the  principals, 
a  supper  for  the  chorus — everything  gala. 
153 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

Katharine  was  alive  to  the  jokes  of  the 
funny  man,  glowing  to  her  support,  and  with 
all  her  shyness  sang  what  Lawrence  called 
"winning"  music.  Katharine  Sims  had  been 
his  find — at  least  he  thought  so.  She  had  been 
the  find  of  the  season,  in  fact.  The  DeVinne 
had  been  very  liberal  to  Katharine.  She  had 
brought  a  fortune  to  the  DeVinne,  and  to 
night  the  homage  set  a  good  deal  to  her. 

Ever  since  Katharine  had  first  interpolated 
Barlow's  pretty  song,  Love  Spoke,  it  had 
become  a  feature  on  big  nights,  and  people  had 
come  to  associate  Love  Spoke  with  Kath 
arine  Sims,  no  matter  what  the  opera.  On 
that  night  of  farewell  it  was  sung  again,  with 
Adolph  Keinhart's  violin  obligate  and  to 
great  applause.  The  boxes  were  given  to 
parties,  the  house  was  solid,  the  stairs  packed, 
and  the  walls  lined  with  men  and  with  women 
who  would  brave  the  crowd,  the  effort,  and  the 
fatigue.  The  Rosses  had  a  box  party — the 
young  folks  in  front  drunk  with  chocolates 
and  refrains,  Miss  Julia  Boss  and  George  in 
the  back.  Across  {he  house  in  one  of  the  seats 
154 


A  WOMAN  BETWEEN 

he  so  often  chose — a  parquet  chair  under 
the  shadow  of  the  circle — sat  George  Du- 
rant. 

When  the  curtain  rang  down  on  the  last 
scene  the  audience  on  their  feet  called  the 
singers  out  again  and  again.  It  was  not  the 
excitement  of  the  enthusiasm  so  much  as 
the  gratefulness  of  farewell.  The  applause 
came  not  in  a  storm,  but  in  showers,  gentle  and 
steady  as  warm  rains.  Even  after  the  or 
chestra  had  played  a  supplemental  strain  to 
empty  the  house  the  audience  hung  good- 
naturedly  about.  Back  of  the  stage,  rules 
harshly  enforced  during  the  long  season  were 
now  relaxed,  and  people  with  half  rights  and 
people  with  no  rights  jostled  people  with  good 
rights  in  crowding  behind  the  scenes  to  say 
good-by  to  favorites  and  to  friends.  It  was 
a  theatrical  thaw,  a  breaking  up,  a  dissolu 
tion,  this  season-ending,  and  one  in  which 
every  one  wanted  part.  New  lines  for  the  De- 
Vinne  had  already  been  laid  out  and  an 
nounced  for  the  coming  season.  Light  opera 
was  bidding  the  house  farewell. 
155 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

There  was  such  a  crowd  in  the  wings  that 
Lawrence  ordered  on  the  fly  lights  and  groups 
of  talkers  made  their  way  out  on  the  stage. 
Orchestra  players  elbowed  chorus  girls,  box- 
office  assistants  talked  to  the  comedians,  and 
interested  teachers  made  ado  over  promising 
pupils.  Even  when  Katharine  Sims  came  up 
from  her  dressing-room  not  all  had  gone,  and 
the  scene  on  the  usually  empty  stage  looked 
like  a  reception.  The  young  folks  of  the  Ross 
party  surrounded  her  straightway,  and  her 
maid  laden  with  flowers  paused.  Barry,  the 
gentle  tenor,  stepped  up  to  the  circle  to  intro 
duce  some  one  to  Katharine,  and  Katharine 
introduced  him  to  the  circle  of  girls  and  to 
George  Ross.  Adolph  Reinhart,  hat  in  hand, 
shook  both  Katharine's  hands  in  good-by  and 
God  blessed  her  twenty  times.  Lawrence 
pushed  in,  manager  fashion,  Mabel  Anthony 
with  him  all  smiles. 

"The  divine  right  of  critics,"  she  mur 
mured  to  Katharine,  "to  be  where  one's  not 
wanted. ' ' 

"Oh,  you  are  wanted,  Miss  Anthony.  Who 
156 


A  WOMAN  BETWEEN 

should  come  before  you  after  all  you've  done 
for  me  this  year?" 

Lawrence  had  arranged  a  supper  for  Barry 
and  Katharine.  "Come,"  he  called,  turning 
as  the  leader  left  him.  "Miss  Sims,  you'll 
never  get  anything  to  eat  if  this  keeps  up. 
Come  on,  Miss  Anthony,  you're  in  it,  too.  Oh, 
yes,  isn't  she,  Miss  Sims?  Come."  As  the 
party  moved,  Durant  made  his  way  toward 
Katharine.  But  she  turned  to  answer  a  greet 
ing  and  Mabel  Anthony  saw  him  first  and  ex 
tended  her  hand,  the  others  talking  volleys 
about  them.  Then  Katharine  caught  sight  of 
Durant,  and,  with  a  little  cry  of  welcome,  put 
ting  out  her  hand,  waved  it  heartily  at  him 
over  Bessie  Boss's  shoulder.  He  made  his 
way  to  her.  George  Ross  stood  at  her  left. 
She  was  tearing  a  branch  of  syringas  into 
sprays  and  distributing  them  among  the  girls. 

'  *  Oh,  Mr.  Durant ! ' '  she  cried,  i  1 1  'm  so  glad 
to  see  you.  Why,  you  have  completely  de 
serted  us  lately !  Mr.  Boss,  have  you  met  my 
friend.  Mr.  Durant?"  In  the  chatter  and  con 
fusion,  people  talking  at  every  elbow,  the  eyes 
157 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

of  the  two  men  met.  They  extended  their 
hands — spoke  courteously.  But  their  eyes 
and  their  tones  spoke  a  truce — no  more.  In 
the  first  moment  that  they  met  a  woman  stood 
between  them  and  by  that  deepest  instinct 
in  a  man's  heart — the  instinct  as  strange  as 
life,  as  swift  as  happiness,  as  keen  as  pain — 
each  knew  it;  and  a  woman  stood  between 
them  to  the  end.  Katharine  talked  fast,  cor 
dially,  to  both.  The  two  men,  each  in  his  way, 
smiled,  laughed,  answered  her  sallies.  But 
each  was  thinking  not  at  all  of  what  was  going 
on  about  him ;  not  of  what  she  said ;  each  was 
thinking  of  the  other.  Howard  Cook  seized 
Ross's  arm  and  took  his  attention  momen 
tarily.  Lawrence,  in  the  interval,  turned  to 
speak  to  Durant.  "You  must  come  to  supper 
with  Miss  Sims,  Durant.  Miss  Sims — Miss 
Anthony — Barry.  Don't  say  a  word — you're 
coming." 

Durant  spoke.  "Hadn't  Miss  Sims  better 
pass  on  that,  Lawrence?" 

George  Ross  was  answering  a  question. 
Bessie  and  Howard  Cook  were  both  talking  at 
158 


A  WOMAN  BETWEEN 

him,  but  George  Boss,  himself  talking,  heard 
what  Lawrence  said ;  heard  what  Durant  said ; 
listened  for  Katharine's  answer  as  she  clapped 
her  hands  quickly.  "Oh,  Miss  Sims  passes 
on  that  at  once.  Mr.  Durant  should  know  he 
he  is  the  most  welcome  possible  guest  where 
I  take  supper,  Mr.  Lawrence." 

"Then  come  along,"  commanded  Lawrence. 
"I'm  your  manager  till  twelve  o'clock,  mid 
night,  to-night,  I  reckon,  and  you're  under 
contract  to  obey." 

Miss  Anthony  interpolated.  "Isn't  it  hor 
rid  to  be  bossed  f 

"But  just  a  minute,"  begged  Katharine. 
"Oh,  Brooks,"  she  called  to  her  maid,  "give 
me  those  roses.  See  here,  aren't  they  lovely?" 
She  held  out  a  basket  of  garden  roses.  "They 
came  without  card."  She  looked  at  Durant 
as  she  said  it.  "Mr.  Durant,  you  hold  them 
while  I  decorate  my  friends.  Miss  Boss,  Mr. 
Cook,  here — you  must  all  share  my  roses. 
Aren't  they  fragrant?  What  a  travesty  on 
these  the  hot-house  flowers  are.  There — and, 
oh,  Mr.  Ross,  don't  run  away  before  you  have 
159 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

one.  Here;  these.  Oh,  yes;  all  of  them. 
Good-night!  Good-night,  all.  Many  thanks 
for  your  kindness,  every  one  of  you.  Good 
night!" 


160 


CHAPTER  XII 

ONE   FLOWER 

IT  seemed  afterward  to  Katharine  that 
every  time  George  Boss  called  on  her  he  met 
Durant. 

It  was  really  not  quite  so  bad;  nor  could 
Katharine,  had  she  been  pressed,  have  held 
that  it  was  unpleasant  to  have  both  with  her 
at  the  same  time.  Both  were  tactful,  both 
understood  being  agreeable.  Yet  Katharine, 
when  they  met  in  her  presence,  was  conscious 
of  a  strain.  One  difficulty  was  that  every  time 
they  met  they  had  to  be  introduced. 

Shortly  after  the  close  of  the  season  Kath 
arine  and  her  aunt  went  into  Wisconsin.  They 
found  such  a  place  as  they  wanted  at  Cuyler's 
Inn,  near  Waukesha,  where  a  trolley-line  gave 
access  to  the  Springs.  About  them  and  to  the 
west  stretched  the  lake  region  with  winding 
161 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

hills  and  leafy  roads  and  summer  fields.  On 
Lac  la  Belle,  not  far  away,  the  Eosses  had  a 
place — Bass  Point — unpretentious  but  beauti 
ful,  and  still  one  of  the  show-places.  George 
sailed  a  yacht  from  Bass  Point.  Bessie,  in  an 
exaggerated  cart,  drove  over  before  Aunt 
Mary  had  the  trunks  unpacked,  and  announced 
that  while  headquarters  might  be  maintained 
at  Cuyler's,  the  time  of  Katharine  and  her 
aunt  was  to  be  spent  at  Bass  Point.  Bessie 
never  hid  her  lamp,  and  the  summer  colony 
at  Cuyler's  knew  almost  before  she  had  driven 
away  that  the  rather  tall,  quiet  young  arrival 
who  wore  black  and  looked  well  in  it,  who  hid 
her  smiles  pleasantly,  and  who  with  her  aunt 
sat  out  under  the  maples  so  much,  was  in  re 
ality  their  most  distinguished  guest — a  singer 
of  renown  with  no  end  of  gay  operas  stowed 
under  her  loose  hair.  As  for  Bessie  herself, 
her  rig  always  asserted  her  dignity.  Her 
phaeton  with  a  back  like  a  reredos,  her  little 
horse  Matches  (called  so  because  he  was 
fiery),  faultlessly  trapped,  and  her  childlike 
twenty  years  as  she  flew  hatless  down  the 
162 


ONE  FLOWER 

road,  were  conceded  by  the  Cuyler  people  to 
be  stunning. 

On  Saturday  George  Eoss  used  to  run  up 
and  pray — so  he  said — all  day  Sunday  that 
there  wouldn't  be  a  breakdown  in  the  power 
house  before  Monday.  Once  he  drove  over 
to  Cuyler's  unexpectedly  on  a  Wednesday — 
and  ran  into  Durant.  They  had  to  be  intro 
duced,  and  this  annoyed  Katharine.  She  re 
monstrated.  The  men  took  it  in  the  best  of 
humor;  each  protested  that  it  was  unneces 
sary,  or  that  at  all  events  he  alone  was  at 
fault. 

Katharine  had  promised  Bessie  Eoss  to 
come  over  to  Bass  Point  on  a  certain  Satur 
day  for  a  regatta  and  to  spend  Sunday  with 
her.  Her  aunt  preferred  to  rest  quietly  at 
home.  For  the  races  Saturday  they  had  a 
launch  party  under  young  Mr.  Cook's  man 
agement.  George,  with  a  friend,  arrived  in 
time  for  dinner.  In  the  evening,  Bessie  had  a 
company  to  meet  Katharine.  George's  friend, 
an  electrical  engineer,  was  clever  at  sleight- 
of-hand  tricks,  and  entertained.  He  could 
163 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

sing,  too,  and  they  encouraged  him  to  attempt 
some  duets  with  Katharine.  Then  Bessie 
played  Mikado  airs  from  a  resurrected  dog 
eared  book  of  the  score,  and  every  one  sang 
at  the  choruses. 

Sunday  morning  it  showered  so  that  the 
little  party  kept  the  house  till  dinner,  at  which 
Julia  Eoss  presided.  In  the  afternoon  the  sun 
shone,  the  trees  sparkled,  and  the  hard  gravel 
roads  were  right  for  driving.  When  they 
all  came  in  toward  supper-time  Katharine 
tried  to  get  away,  but  she  could  not,  and  when 
she  finally  started  for  home  it  was  ten  o'clock. 
They  took  the  depot  wagon,  because  the  sky 
had  again  overcast,  and  George  Ross  drove, 
Bessie  and  young  Mr.  Cook  inside.  Kath 
arine  sat  front  with  the  driver.  He  wanted 
to  tell  her  more  particularly  about  the  new 
power-house  he  was  building  on  French 
Street,  and  Katharine  hated  to  be  disoblig 
ing.  Half-way  home  they  drove  into  a 
shower.  It  struck  them  so  quickly  they  could 
not  well  change  seats,  so  Mr.  Ross  managed 
the  rubber  boot  and  the  lap-robes,  and  tucked 
164 


ONE  FLOWER 

Katharine  in  beyond  the  possibility  of  ex 
posing  her  throat,  while  he  took  the  soaking 
and  the  sympathy  and  gratitude  as  greedily 
as  any  hero  should.  His  tone  became  all  new 
in  mild,  care-taking  admonition;  his  voice 
reached  a  baritone  point  that  had  never  be 
fore,  even  to  himself,  made  itself  known.  His 
manner  was  solicitude  and  his  word  gentle 
ness;  he  meant  to  be  and  was  unblushingly 
courteous.  And  it  rained  harder,  and  the 
horse,  a  fiery  beast  even  in  sunshine,  took 
fright  at  the  thunder,  and  George  had  him 
to  master — which  he  did.  He  drove  well  and 
kept  a  firm  hand  not  only  on  the  reins,  but 
on  her  fingers  when  he  said  good-by  to  her 
on  the  dark  hotel  porch. 

Hardly  had  the  Rosses  started  to  return 
to  Oconomowoc  when  the  rain  fell  again  furi 
ously.  As  Katharine  turned  up  the  light  in 
her  room  the  shower  was  drumming  heavily 
on  the  roof.  Aunt  Mary,  lying  on  the  couch, 
rose.  Katharine  saw  that  her  eyes  were  red. 
"Mariana!  Mariana!"  she  exclaimed,  "you've 
been  crying.  What's  the  matter?"  Oh,  have 
165 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

you  been  lonely  to-day?  I  ought  not  to  have 
left  you." 

"Oh,  no,  dear,  I  haven't  had  a  chance." 
smiled  Aunt  Mary,  smoothing  her  hair.  "Who 
do  you  think  has  been  here!" 

"Who?" 

"Since  last  night." 

"Who?" 

"Mr.  Durant" 

"Why,  auntie !  Why  didn't  you  telephone?" 
cried  Katharine,  dropping,  without  unpinning 
her  hat,  all  moist  and  wide-eyed,  into  a  chair. 

"I  wanted  to ;  he  wouldn't  let  me.  Did  you 
have  a  good  time,  Kate?" 

"Wouldn't  let  you?"  echoed  Katharine. 
"That's  strange."  She  eyed  her  aunt. 

"Tell  me  what  you've  been  doing,  Kate," 
urged  Aunt  Mary.  "How  wet  you  are, 
child!" 

"Tell  me  what  you've  been  doing,  auntie," 
demanded  Katharine,  pressing.  "Have  you 
just  noticed  I'm  wet?  Don't  you  hear  it  rain 
ing?  Mariana  Sims,  what  is  the  matter, 
darling?"  Katharine  drew  her  aunt  back  on 
166 


ONE  FLOWER 

the  sofa  and  sat  down  beside  her.    "There's 
something  the  matter.    Tell  me,"  she  coaxed. 

"There  isn't  anything  to  tell,  dear,  except 
that  he  came  last  night  on  the  eight  o'clock 
train  and  surprised  me.  I  wanted  to  send 
for  you,  but  when  I  told  him  you  were  out 
with  a  yachting  party  and  expected  to  spend 
Sunday  with  the  Rosses  he  wouldn't  hear  of 
my  letting  you  know." 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  him  over?" 

"I  wanted  to ;  he  wouldn't  let  me.  He  said 
it  would  break  in  on  your  outing,  and  he 
wouldn't  listen  to  anything  but  staying  here 
with  me.  We  talked  last  night  till  eleven 
o'clock  out  on  the  lawn — and  it  was  such  a 
beautiful  night,  wasn't  it?  What  were  you 
doing?" 

"Oh,  dancing,  and  a  young  lady  read,  and 
there  was  an  amateur  sleight-of-hand  per 
former — a  friend  of  Mr.  Ross's — and  he 
could  sing,  so  we  sang,  and  they  all  sang 
choruses,  and  I  sang  Evening  and  Love 
Spoke.  Tell  me  what  you  talked  about ;  what 
did  he  say?" 

12  167 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

Aunt  Mary  fenced  and  fibbed,  and  told 
everything  but  what  Katharine  knew  she  was 
trying  to  conceal. 

"But  you  must,  auntie.  You  must  tell  me 
everything  because  you  love  me." 

"But  I  promised,"  struggled  Aunt  Mary, 
"to  keep  his  confidence  for  a  while.  Go  to  bed, 
dearie,"  she  urged,  "and  wait." 

"Auntie,  I  can't  wait.  I  shouldn't  sleep  a 
wink.  I'm  so  excited  now  I  can't  sit  still ;  you 
must  tell  me." 

It  ended  in  a  compromise,  and  for  Aunt 
Mary  a  wretched  one. 

"He  is  having  so  much  worry,  dear,"  she 
whispered  at  last.  "That  was  what  it  was 
about — business  matters.  It  was  my  fault  he 
spoke  about  it  at  all — you  know  how  reticent 
he  is  over  his  own  affairs.  After  we  had  sat 
under  the  trees  a  long  time,  he  seemed  so 
silent  I  knew  something  was  worrying  him. 
He  asked  me  how  I  knew.  I  told  him  because 
I  knew  what  it  meant  to  worry.  He  asked  me 
then  what  I  ever  had  to  worry  over,  and  when 
I  told  him  how  we  didn't  even  have  the  money 
168 


ONE   FLOWER 

to  buy  your  costume  for  the  Mikado,  and  how 
his  Japanese  chest  saved  you  from  having  to 
beg  somebody  for  one,  he  didn't  speak  a  word 
for  the  longest  time.  He  said  then  that  I 
ought  to  have  told  him — that  it  wasn't  right 
he  should  be  left  ignorant  when  it  was  sup 
posed  by  everybody  we  were  at  least  com 
fortably  provided  for — that  he  could  have 
done  very  differently  if  he  had  known.  He 
reproached  himself,  so  it  started  me  to  crying 
— that's  how  everything  came  about."  She 
paused  a  moment.  "This  afternoon  he  took 
me  driving;  we  started  talking  again,  and  he 
spoke  of  how  bad  things  had  been  in  the  cof 
fee  market — something  of  heavy  losses  he  has 
met  in  business.  We  drove  over  to  Ocono- 
mowoc " 

"You  did?" 

"All  around  Bass  Point,  past  Ross's,  and 
we  could  see  you  all  out  on  the  lawn  and  un 
der  the  trees " 

"Oh,  Aunt  Mary!" 

"You  must  guess  what  he  told  me  to-day. 
Dear,  my  promise  is  sacred.  I  never  sus- 
169 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

pected  it — never.  I  told  Mm  I  knew  you 
never  suspected  it — never  in  the  world — and 
he  thought  that  so  strange.  Of  course,  I  told 
him  I  knew  he  was  fond  of  you,  but  that  was 
all.  Then  he  said  perhaps  after  all  you  were 
happier  with  young  people — we  were  so  close 
to  you  all  we  could  hear  the  laughing — he 
spoke  of  it  in  such  a  way  I  felt  as  if  my  heart 
would  break.  Kate,  darling,  don't  cry  so 
hard.  He  asked  me  not  to  tell  till  he  could 
speak  himself." 

Katharine  drew  her  foster-mother  into  her 
arms.  "Why  should  he  say  I  would  be  hap 
pier  with  them?"  she  sobbed.  "What  did  you 
say,  Aunt  Mary — what  did  you  sayf 

"I  told  him  I  knew  you  esteemed  him  above 
everybody  in  the  world — and  he  looked  at  me 
as  if  his  eyes  would  go  through  me.  I  begged 
him  to  stay  over.  He  was  unwilling  to  meet 
you  to-night ;  different  from  what  I  ever  saw 
him.  Then  he  said  the  coffee  market  was 
very  bad  and  he  must  be  back  for  early  Mon 
day  morning — but  I  think  it  was  because  he 
thought  he  had  said  too  much.  'You  are  the 
170 


ONE  FLOWER 

first  person  in  the  world,  Aunt  Mary/  lie 
said  to  me,  'that  I  have  ever  given  a  confi 
dence  to  of  any  kind.  It  would  have  been 
better  if  I  had  begun  sooner,  perhaps ;  I  don't 
know.  I  never  had  a  confidant.'  " 

Morning  brought  the  sun,  all  glorious,  to  set 
the  jewels  a  moment  in  the  summer  landscape, 
then  to  touch  Nature's  tears  and  print  its  own 
smile  on  every  living  thing.  It  was  the  warn 
ing  that  every  sunrise  gives  after  a  night  of 
storm:  that  Nature  has  no  place  for  unhap- 
piness ;  that  because  it  can  do  no  wrong  it  must 
sing  and  will. 

At  ten  o'clock  Bessie  and  young  Mr.  Cook 
and  George  Boss  arrived  in  the  trap.  Kath 
arine  wanted  some  honey  for  Aunt  Mary,  and 
Bessie  had  told  her  of  a  farm  on  the  Naga- 
wicka  road  where  most  delicious  honey 
could  be  had.  George  offered  the  trap.  Cook 
stayed  with  Bessie  to  call  on  some  friends  of 
his,  who  had  just  come  up  from  St.  Louis, 
where  one  lives  only  till  the  twelfth  of  July — 
after  that  it  is  Wisconsin  or  death. 

Katharine,  still  somewhat  upset  from  the 
171 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

night's  alarms,  let  young  Mr.  Cook  help  her 
up  into  the  trap,  and,  with  George  Ross,  she 
drove  from  the  hotel,  waving  her  hand  at  the 
group  on  the  porch. 

The  difficulties  of  the  trip  began  when 
George  failed  to  locate  the  honey  farm,  and 
they  drove  till  they  unexpectedly  struck  fa 
miliar  surroundings  in  a  glimpse  of  Ocono- 
mowoc. 

It  would  now  be  necessary,  said  George, 
calmly,  to  go  to  Bass  Point  for  luncheon  and 
take  a  fresh  start.  At  Bass  Point  they  found 
Julia  Boss  had  gone  to  the  lower  end  of  the 
lake  for  the  day.  The  cottage  never  looked 
prettier  than  when  Katharine  took  off  her 
hat  in  Bessie's  room  and  George  began  to  step 
lightly  around  in  her  service.  By  the  time  he 
had  got  Bessie  and  Aunt  Mary  on  the  tele 
phone  it  began  to  seem  a  lark,  and  Katharine 
was  witty  over  the  wire,  chaffing  Aunt  Mary 
and  her  guests  about  the  queer  situation,  and 
bidding  Bessie  make  herself  quite  as  much  at 
home  in  her  room  as  she  was  doing  in  Bessie's. 

As  Katharine,  still  rather  warm,  slipped 
172 


ONE   FLOWER 

down  on  the  bench  at  the  piano,  a  maid  en 
tered  with  refreshment.  Then  Katharine,  at 
George's  request,  sang  Love  Spoke.  He 
thought  it  the  very  best  thing  he  had  ever 
heard  in  his  life,  and  told  Katharine  she  ought 
to  have  at  least  one-half  the  royalties  because 
her  singing  of  the  song  had  made  it.  By  that 
time  it  was  luncheon,  and  Katharine,  sitting  at 
one  side  of  the  table,  was  telling  him,  at  the 
other,  all  about  the  song ;  about  Barlow,  who 
wrote  it;  how  poverty-stricken  he  had  been, 
and  how  he  worked  and  worked  with  her  that 
summer  getting  her  up  for  the  first  parts, 
while  his  wife  was  dressmaking ;  and  how  he 
used  to  empty  the  refrigerator ;  and  how  this 
song  he  had  written,  which  she  had  interpo 
lated  during  the  winter  as  an  encore,  had  be 
come  so  popular  that  it  had  made  him  a  com 
petency  ;  and  that  when  the  season  closed  and 
the  song  was  selling  all  over  the  United  States, 
Barlow — whose  habits  were  not  the  best — 
had  in  Katharine's  presence  presented  the 
copyright  to  his  wife. 
It  seemed  to  Katharine  so  pleasant  to  re- 
173 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

count  all  this  in  the  subdued  green  and  cream 
dining-room  over  the  glass  and  the  china  on 
which  she  and  George  were  silently  served 
with  portions  of  dainty  things,  and  to  hear 
George's  banter  and  sympathy  and  admira 
tion.  The  air,  blowing  soft  from  the  lawn, 
smelt  of  grass  and  creeping  vines  and  of  the 
leaves  of  noon-sleeping  trees.  She  could  not 
realize  how  she  herself  added  to  the  scene — 
what  the  warmth  of  her  lips  and  her  eyes, 
what  all  the  wine  of  her  manner,  meant  to 
George  Boss.  She  could  not  realize  that 
where  a  woman  is,  all  the  surroundings  that 
taste  and  means  may  supply  serve  only  as  a 
setting  to  her  own  loveliness ;  that  the  heart 
of  a  man  is  fixed  ever  on  the  picture — never 
on  the  frame. 

Sitting  under  the  trees  down  toward  the  still 
water,  George  Koss — Katharine  reclining  in 
a  steamer  chair — talked  of  his  own  affairs. 
Not  confidently,  only  simply  and  openly.  Then 
unexpectedly  he  would  ask  to  put  a  mat  un 
der  her  feet  for  fear  dampness  might  strike 
through  her  pretty  boots. 
174 


ONE   FLOWER 

"I  should  know  you  had  an  invalid  sister," 
she  smiled. 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  are  so  considerate." 

For  the  afternoon,  George  urged  saddle- 
horses. 

"But  I  can't  ride,  Mr.  Ross." 

"Oh,  I'll  give  you  a  horse  that  you  couldn't 
fall  off  of." 

"But,  dear  me,  how  could  we  carry  the 
honey  f" 

Disappointed  somewhat,  he  ordered  up  the 
team,  and  starting  from  Bass  Point  they 
readily  found  the  honey  farm.  They  had  a 
glass  of  milk  and  bread  and  honey  with  the 
frail  little  old  woman  that  tended  the  bees, 
and  listened  to  her  stories.  Katharine  told 
her  how  her  aunt  used  to  keep  bees  in  Virginia, 
and  how  cleverly  they  built  ladders  in  Vir 
ginia  for  the  bees  to  walk  up  into  the  hives ; 
and  George  believed  it  until  the  two  women 
laughed  together  at  his  innocence.  In  fact, 
they  were  so  lively  that  the  honey  woman, 
when  they  were  leaving,  said  they  were 
175 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

a  very  handsome  couple  and  wished  them  good 
luck,  and  told  them  of  an  old  and  very  pretty 
road  to  Cuyler  's,  though  it  was  a  little  longer 
than  the  hill  road. 

With  their  honey  wrapped  in  newspapers 
they  went  back  by  the  old  road,  which  part  of 
the  way  proved  to  be  a  lane  of  meeting  trees, 
through  which  the  sun  hardly  could  strike. 
In  the  woods  Katharine  exclaimed  at  strange 
flowers  that  carpeted  the  little  open  places, 
and  George  reined  up.  He  tied  the  horses, 
and  Katharine  ran  ahead  to  a  glade  that  was 
filled  with  wood  flowers;  neither  knew  their 
names. 

"Where  is  your  botany?"  demanded  Kath 
arine. 

"What  about  your  posing  in  the  country- 
girl  act  and  the  dairy-maid  act  at  the  DeVinne 
last  winter?  You  ought  to  know  wild  flowers 
in  your  business." 

They  gathered  them  and  sat  down  and 
spoke,  and  worst  of  all  were,  at  moments, 
silent.  Katharine  was  thinking  of  Durant. 

"We  must  go,"  she  declared  at  last,  gath- 
176 


ONE   FLOWER 

ering    her    flowers.      "This    is    delightful, 
but " 

"But  will  you  wait  just  a  moment?"  His 
tone  and  his  manner  frightened  her  now,  for 
she  saw,  too  late,  something  in  his  face  and 
turned  away.  But  he  swept  her  very  con 
sciousness  up  in  the  whirlwind  of  his  words. 
"Will  you  wait  till  I  tell  you  what  I  am  miser 
ably  afraid  to  and  must — that  I  love  you, 
Katharine?  Don't  run  from  me " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ross.    Please " 

He  stood  leaning  with  one  hand  against  the 
tree  from  the  foot  of  which  he  had  helped  her 
to  her  feet.  She  held  her  hat  filled  basket- 
like  with  flowers  and  her  eyes  fell  in  hopeless 
confusion  as  she  halted  at  his  appeal. 

"It's  unfair — I  know.  I  could  never  get 
up  courage  to  say  it  anywhere  I  planned. 
And  I've  planned  so  many  times  that  when 
you  wanted  to  stop  for  the  flowers  I  made  an 
awful  resolve  to  speak  before  you  got  in  the 
trap  again.  I  waited  till  the  last  minute — I 
know — I  ought  to  know  how  foolish  it  is  for 

me  to  hope " 

177 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Oh,  do  put  me  in  the  trap,  Mr.  Boss. 
Really,  it  is  my  fault.  I  am  crushed." 

"It's  only  your  fault  in  being  the  loveliest 
woman  on  earth  to  me." 

«T 11 

He  bowed.  "I  couldn't  help  saying  it." 
Somehow  they  got  home  and  each  put  on  a 
brave  face.  Each  told  stories  and  showed 
their  honey,  but  neither  spoke  of  the  old  road 
or  of  the  lovely  woods  or  of  the  wild  flowers 
that  lay  wilting  under  the  seat  in  Katharine's 
summer  hat.  When  in  the  dusk,  after  supper, 
the  Rosses  were  leaving  and  Mr.  Cook  and 
Bessie  were  in,  George  handed  the  hat  to 
Katharine.  He  asked  if  he  might  have  one 
flower — and  one  she  gave  him. 


178 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   QUARREL   IN  THE   WOODS 

TWENTY-FOUR  hours  changed  Katharine 
from  a  girl  into  a  woman.  Nothing  in  all  her 
hard  work,  her  privation,  her  success  and  its 
rewards  changed  her  as  one  night  and  one  day 
changed  her.  She  was  as  one  who  sleeps  a 
child  and  wakes  to  a  throne;  all  womanhood 
was  hers. 

For  ten  days  Eoss  was  silent;  Katharine 
neither  saw  him  nor  heard  from  him.  Then 
came  a  letter,  in  a  few  words;  a  letter  ex 
pressing  contrition  and  justification  in  a 
breath;  apology  and  gentle  humor  together; 
asking  her  finally,  as  a  man  may,  what  she 
was  going  to  do  with  him;  and  Katharine 
answered. 

She  answered  that  he  must  not  for  a  mo- 
179 


THE    CLOSE    OF   THE   DAY 

merit  think  of  her  other  than  as  the  friend  she 
always  wanted  to  be. 

He  bore  it.  When  he  came  again  he  met 
her  frankly  and  cordially,  and  while  they 
were  with  the  others  he  was  the  same  tall,  de 
lightful,  mild-mannered  George  Ross.  A 
word  with  her  he  tried  to  manage,  but  saw 
finally  he  could  not  unless  she  willed  it.  So 
ceasing  his  attempt  to  compel,  he  humbly  ap 
pealed  and  got  his  word.  It  was  a  very  old 
word;  was  there,  asked  George,  any  other 
man?  And,  worst  of  all,  he  could  not  decide 
from  all  Katharine  said  whether  there  teas 
another  man.  She  was  open  in  saying  that 
he  must  give  up  his  startling  declaration ;  but 
there  were  limits  to  her  candor. 

It  was  this  that  tormented  him,  the  idea  of 
the  other  man,  for  the  other  man  he  knew  in 
stinctively  must  be  Durant.  A  brief  frenzy, 
such  as  develops  easily  in  a  quiet  youth  like 
George  Boss,  made  his  uncertainty  a  fever. 
Every  time  he  met  Durant,  always  cold,  Eoss 
felt  the  same  jealous  hating  dread. 

One  Sunday  evening  a  sacred  concert  had 
180 


THE    QUARREL    IN    THE    WOODS 

been  arranged  and  Katharine  had  consented 
to  sing.  George  Ross  stayed  at  the  inn  all 
night.  Even  the  next  day,  Katharine's  sing 
ing  was  like  a  fragrance  that  lingered  about 
the  place.  At  dinner  Durant,  Ross,  Aunt 
Mary,  and  Katharine  talked  of  the  next  sea 
son  plans,  already  shaped  with  Lawrence  for 
her  New  York  appearance  in  an  opera  he  had 
secured  the  rights  of  and  expected  great 
things  from.  The  book  had  arrived,  and  the 
morning  had  gone  at  the  piano  up  in  their 
rooms  running  through  it.  In  the  afternoon 
the  men  scattered  under  the  trees  to  sleep  and 
smoke.  Durant,  after  a  cigar,  started  alone 
up  the  bay  toward  the  lake. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  Ross  met  him 
in  the  path  through  the  heavy  woods  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill.  It  was  so  nearly  twilight 
that  Durant  did  not  notice  his  approach. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Durant." 

Durant  was  stooping  among  the  trees 
when  Ross  spoke.  "How  do  you  do?"  he  an 
swered.  "These  woods  are  full  of  mush 
rooms.  ' ' 

181 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Mr.  Durant,"  continued  Ross,  abruptly, 
"we  were  discussing  Miss  Sims'  plans  for  the 
next  season  at  dinner.  May  I  ask  you  a  frank 
question?" 

"Anything  you  like." 

"Are  you  a  suitor  of  Miss  Sims !" 

Durant  looked  at  him  and  drawing  his  hand 
kerchief  dusted  his  fingers.  "That  is  surpris 
ingly  frank." 

"I  ought  to  say  with  equal  frankness  that  I 
am." 

"Any  man  might  be  proud  to  be." 

"But  that  does  not  answer  my  inquiry." 

Durant  paused. 

"I  give  you  the  privilege  of  asking  your 
question,"  he  replied,  "you  should  give  me  the 
privilege  of  considering  an  answer." 

"I  feel  that  you  can  afford  to  meet  me  in 
the  matter  in  the  spirit  that  I  meet  you,"  re 
turned  Ross,  with  nervous  vehemence. 

"Don't  be  too  fast." 

"Evasion  is  not  what  I  am  looking  for." 

"Nor  am  I  looking  for  insult." 

tci  thought  you  capable  of  directness." 
182 


"Are  you  sure  it  is  called  for1?" 

"Miss  Sims  knows  my  attitude.  She  has 
given  me  no  encouragement — every  discour 
agement,  in  fact — I  have  tried  to  find  out  why 
and  failed.  Her  happiness  is  more  to  me  than 
my  own.  I  will  withdraw  when  it  is  clearly 
my  duty  to  do  so.  But  I  have  said  I  would 
wait  for  a  better  reason  than  she  has  yet 
given  me." 

"Still,  I  see  no  reason  for  the  necessity  of 
any  temper  on  your  part " 

"Nor  do  I  see  why  there  should  be  any 
equivocation  on  yours." 

"Then  get  it  perfectly  clear  in  your  mind," 
said  Durant,  angrily,  "that  I  have  Miss  Sims' 
interests  at  heart  quite  as  strongly  as  you 
possibly  can  have." 

"Your  words  are  fair,  but  such  words  don't 
quite  tally  with  your  record.  I  like  explicit- 
ness." 

Durant  broke  a  twig  in  his  hand.  "What 
do  you,"  he  asked,  "complain  of  in  my  rec 
ord?" 

"All  that  I  know  is  what  other  men  know. 
13  183 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

Your  bachelor  quarters  in  Chicago  have  not 
been  famous  because  of  quiet  companies.  I 
would  like  to  ask  what  part  such  a  woman  as 
Miss  Katharine  Sims  could  take  in  one  of 
your  Michigan  Avenue  suppers  ?" 

"You  may  have  a  quarrel  without  dragging 
Miss  Sims'  name  into  it." 

"There  should  be  no  objection  to  taking  her 
name  into  any  association  with  yours — if  your 
words  are  sincere,  that  you  have  her  interests 
at  heart  as  I  have." 

"I  have  not  for  some  years  even  lived  in 
Michigan  Avenue." 

"You  made  your  record  there.  When  your 
name  is  associated  with  a  woman's  name  it's 
you  have  given  it  the  tone  it  takes.  Will  you 
tell  me  how  many  women  have  been  the  better 
for  knowing  you  I" 

"Yes,"  answered  Durant,  "when  you  name 
one  that  has  been  the  worse." 

"You  are  known  as  an  entertainer  of  stage 
people.  Are  they  such  as  you  would  like 
Katharine  Sims  to  associate  with?" 

"That  is  gratuitous." 
184 


THE   QUARREL   IN    THE    WOODS 

"Your  manner  and  morals  are  your  own. 
I  have  no  wish  to  question  them,  but " 

"Your  animus  is  perfectly  clear.  You  dis 
tort  to  make  your  case.  Let  it  be  all  that  you 
can  make  it.  I  have  only  this  to  say :  any  in 
dictment  against  my  record,  as  you  choose  to 
call  it,  comes  with  a  poor  grace  from  you." 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"Since  you  have  already  learned  so  much 
to  my  credit,  suppose  you  make  it  your  busi 
ness  to  ascertain."  Speaking,  Durant  passed 
before  George  Ross  and  walked  slowly  up  the 
hill  toward  the  hotel. 


185 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE      LAST      BALANCE 

THOSE  that  take  the  Illinois  Central  trains 
at  the  foot  of  Randolph  Street  will  recall  how 
many  years  the  office  of  Sloan,  Durant  & 
Company  remained  at  the  corner  of  Randolph 
Street  and  Wabash  Avenue.  The  double  sign 
of  polished  brass  on  the  corner  pier  of  the 
brick  building  bore  only  the  firm  name, 

SLOAN,  DURANT  AND  COMPANY. 

But  that  sign  had  stood  so  many  years  and 
had  been  for  many  years  so  regularly  cleaned 
that  the  mere  words  upon  it  had  become  a 
legend  to  the  neighborhood ;  nor  was  its  letter 
ing,  to  the  last,  ever  changed. 

When  Durant  got  back  next  morning  from 
Cuyler's,  his  firm  was  closing  its  first  six 
months  on  the  new  brokerage  basis.  When 
186 


THE    LAST    BALANCE 

Seymour  walked  into  the  office,  early  though 
it  was,  Durant  was  sitting  at  his  desk. 

"I  took  a  night  train,"  he  explained. 
"Is  your  balance  off  I" 

Thomas  Seymour,  slipping  out  of  a  very 
light  overcoat,  looked  alarmed.  "This  isn't 
the  first.  This  is  the  29th." 

"I  know.  I  am  anxious  to  see  what  we've 
done." 

The  bookkeeper  shuffled  uneasily,  and  took 
off  his  black-rimmed  nose  glasses,  as  he  al 
ways  did  when  disturbed,  to  wipe  them.  The 
traditions  of  thirty-five  years  were  threat 
ened.  "I  couldn't,"  he  protested,  "show  a 
balance  before  the  first." 

There  had  been  years  when  it  meant  a  strug 
gle  to  cross  George  Durant.  Thomas  Sey 
mour  stood  for  a  moment  determined  to  main 
tain  his  position.  But  the  iron  had  of  late 
been  sent  too  often  into  Durant 's  heart  to 
leave  his  domineering  nature  untouched.  "I 
understand;  it's  all  right,"  was  all  he  said. 
And  this  frightened  the  old  bookkeeper.  A 
dispute  would  have  been  nothing ;  but  for  Du- 
187 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

rant  to  give  way  alarmed  him,  it  was  too  dif 
ferent.  "You're  not  well,"  he  asserted,  boldly, 
domineering  in  his  turn. 

"How  did  the  market  close  Saturday?" 

"Bad;  it's  a  mean  market;  no  snap.  You 
ought  to  have  stayed  up  there  this  week. 
There's  nothing  doing.  It  was  very  quiet 
Saturday." 

Durant  turned  to  the  mail  on  his  desk. 
Saturday's  letters  still  lay  about:  Willet  and 
Gray's  sugar  circular;  Grossman's  statistical 
letter;  exchange  tissues,  and  a  calendar  tell 
ing  him  it  was  the  29th  of  June,  1899. 

"Tom." 

"Sir?" 

"This  is  my  birthday." 

"I  want  to  know?  I  want  to  know?  How 
old?" 

"Forty-one." 

Thomas  Seymour,  tying  on  his  desk  apron, 
paused.  "Forty-one?"  he  echoed,  and  con 
tinued  his  tying.  "I  remember  the  morning  in 
Front  Street  your  father  came  down  and  said 
you  were  eighteen  just  as  well  as  if  it  were  yes- 
188 


THE    LAST    BALANCE 

terday.  Birney  Eoss  was  the  financial  man 
then.  He  was  sitting  at  his  desk  and  feeling 
pretty  good  himself.  'Mr.  Durant,'  says  he 
to  your  father,  'we've  got  a  new  member  of 
the  firm  over  at  East  Orange  this  morning.' 
That  was  his  first  and  only  boy.  'That's  good 
luck,'  says  your  father.  'This  is  my  own 
son's  birthday.  George  is  eighteen  to-day.' 
'He  is  T  says  Birney.  'Well,  I'll  tell  you  what 
we'll  do.  We'll  name  the  baby  after  him!' 
And  they  did ;  they  named  him  after  you." 

"Named  him  after  me  ?" 

"George  Eoss." 

"George  Eoss?" 

"Yes.  You  were  on  the  other  side  then  with 
your  mother ;  that  was  the  summer  before  she 
died.  We've  seen  some  pretty  lively  times 
since  then,  by  cracky!  I  wonder  what's  be 
come  of  that  boy?  Somebody  told  me  his 
mother  is  living  in  Chicago  again."  Durant 
was  looking  out  of  the  window.  Seymour 
never  liked  to  see  him  sit  in  that  way.  "I  can 
get  the  balance-sheet  off  to-day." 

"All  right,  Tom.    Do." 
189 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

For  the  old  accountant  the  solemnity  of  the 
balance-sheet  had  never  changed.  The  figures 
had  changed;  but  the  shrunken  sums,  the 
palsied  accounts  that  told  the  story  of  the 
later  years  were  always  in  every  way  formal. 
They  were  ruled,  guarded,  underlined  that 
day,  set  in  the  reddest  red  on  that  last  sheet 
with  the  scrupulous  care  of  the  golden  days, 
a  generation  earlier,  in  old  Front  Street. 

Next  morning  when  Durant  came  down, 
the  balance-sheet  lay  on  his  desk.  Before  he 
took  off  his  coat  he  glanced  at  the  last  item, 
profit  and  loss.  The  figures  of  the  gain  for  six 
months  were  three  hundred  and  seventy-four 
dollars  and  some  cents.  Durant  hung  his 
overcoat  in  the  wardrobe.  Thomas  Seymour 
was  busy,  very  busy,  checking  over  the  June 
Western  Union  bill. 

It  was  too  late  to  turn  tail  on  a  bad  situa 
tion.  Durant  had  faced  the  music  too  long 
for  that.  The  new  endeavor  was  a  failure. 

"Tom,  this  is  worse  than  joint  account." 

Seymour  dropped  his  due  bills,  walked  over 
to  Durant 's  desk,  and  sat  down, 
190 


THE    LAST    BALANCE 

"I  thought  I  had  sold  a  good  many  goods, 
too,"  observed  Durant,  studying  the  sheet  as 
he  tilted  back  his  chair. 

"You  have.  You  have,"  insisted  the  book 
keeper,  with  trembling  vigor.  "It's  the 
market — and  the  expenses" —  he  stumbled 
on — "the  expenses." 

"Why,  no,  Tom;  the  expenses  are  not  ex 
traordinary,  are  they?  We  couldn't  hope  to 
cut  down  the  expenses  very  much." 

"There's  the  salary  account,"  urged  Thomas 
Seymour,  feebly.  "Your  father  used  to  say 
when  we  had  a  bad  year — and  we  had  'em,  Mr. 
Durant,  I  tell  you,  we  had  'em  in  Front 
Street." 

"And  some  good  ones." 

"Well — yes,  sometimes.  Your  father  used 
to  say  when  the  balance  was  poor,  'Tom,  we 
must  look  over  the  salary  account.'  " 

Seymour  took  the  balance-sheet  up  as  Du 
rant  laid  it  down,  and  adjusted  his  glasses. 
They  never  sat  steady  over  his  nose,  but  at 
such  times  they  wobbled  terribly.  "I've  been 
expecting  this,"  observed  Durant.  "And  yet 
191 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

I  can't  see — I  can't  see  what  we  can  do  to  pull 
out."  Thomas  Seymour  twisted  the  trouble 
some  bridge  of  his  nose.  "There's  the  salary 
account,  Mr.  Durant." 

"What  is  the  salary  account  now,  Tom?" 

"You're  drawing  a  hundred  and  fifty  dol 
lars  a  month,  I'm  drawing  sixty-five,  and  we 
pay  Joe  forty.  But  Joe  is  getting  to  be  a 
pretty  good  man.  Yes,  he  is.  He  can  carry 
a  pan  of  coffee  himself." 

"I  thought  we  agreed  on  a  hundred  a  month 
for  you  the  first  of  January  ?" 

Thomas  Seymour  waved  his  hand.  "I  don't 
need  it."  Durant  looked  at  him. 

"You  pay  all  the  room  rent,"  added  the 
bookkeeper,  uneasily,  "and  the  most  of  the 
lunches." 

"I  don't  see  whose  salary  can  be  cut  much 
further,"  remarked  Durant,  "unless  it  is 
yours,  Tom." 

"That's  what  I  say,"  observed  the  book 
keeper,  hooking  up  his  glasses.  "I  can  live  on 
forty  dollars  a  month." 

"Can  you?" 

192 


THE    LAST    BALANCE 

"I  can.  But  Joe  is  getting  to  be  a  pretty 
good  man.  Yes,  he  is." 

"It  is  you  and  I  that  are  not  so  good  as  we 
used  to  be,  Tom." 

"We  may  have  to  raise  him  to  hold  him  next 
year,"  said  Seymour,  bluffingly. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  asked  Durant. 

"He  had  a  good  chance  to  go  into  Kidder- 
Pratt's,  shipping,  last  month.  They  offered 
him  fifty  dollars  a  month.  He  talked  it  over 
with  me.  I  didn't  want  to  let  him  go,  and  I 
told  him  he  was  making  a  mistake — that 
if  he  stayed  with  us  in  this  business  he  would 
have  a  future " 

Durant  rolled  his  eyes.    "My  God !" 

"I  told  him — "  The  front  door  opened. 
"There  he  is  now;  careful." 

"True.  Let  us  be  careful  when  the  porter 
approaches,"  murmured  Durant,  as  Joe 
walked  in.  "Come  here,  Joe,"  he  added. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Are  you  married  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Any  children?" 

193 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Two.  A  boy  and  a  little  girl,  sir.  She's 
pretty  near  two  years  old." 

"How  old  are  you,  Joe  ?" 

"Twenty-seven." 

"Twenty-seven;  drawing  forty  dollars  a 
month.  Can  you  live  on  that?" 

"Well,  you  see,  sir,  my  wife  is  pretty  handy, 
sir." 

"She  is?"  mused  Durant. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Joe,  Mr.  Seymour  says  you're  a  good 
man." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"After  the  first,  you'll  draw  fifty  dollars  a 
month." 

Thomas  Seymour  started  as  if  somebody 
had  stuck  him  with  a  pin.  Durant  looked  at 
him  curiously,  after  Joe  had  expressed  his 
thanks  and  gone  into  the  back  room.  "You 
may  rob  yourself,  Tom.  You've  been  doing 
that  for  me  for  five  years ;  don't  let  us  rob  Joe 
— he's  married." 

He  walked  forward  to  the  sample  counters 
and  began  picking  up  a  line  of  coffees  to  take 
194 


THE    LAST    BALANCE 

out.  "Credit  up  that  thirty-five  dollars  a 
month  you  stole  from  yourself,  Tom — two 
hundred  and  ten  dollars  for  six  months.  Then 
your  balance  will  be  right.  We've  made  one 
hundred  and  sixty-four  dollars  in  six  months." 
Rain  was  falling  in  the  street.  Durant  put 
his  foot  upon  a  chair,  rolled  up  his  trousers, 
turned  up  his  overcoat  collar,  took  his  pans 
under  his  arm,  and,  pulling  his  hat  forward, 
started  down  the  street.  As  he  walked  away, 
Tom  Seymour  shuffled  to  the  counter,  took 
off  his  glasses,  and,  standing  by  the  sample 
pans,  wiped  them  as  he  watched  Durant  dis 
appear  in  the  crowd. 


195 


CHAPTER   XV 

A      REMINISCENCE 

IN  July  Lawrence  came  up  to  Cuyler's  to 
take  Katharine  East  for  rehearsal  work.  A 
quick  round  of  entertainments  was  taken  care 
of  while  Aunt  Mary  went  ahead  to  Chicago  to 
pack.  Then  Katharine  said  good-by  to  her 
summer  friends. 

Before  she  reached  Chicago  Aunt  Mary  had 
telephoned  Durant  to  tell  of  her  own  return 
and  of  Katharine's  coming.  Seymour  had 
answered  her  call,  and  told  her  that  Mr.  Du 
rant  was  in  New  York. 

"Did  you  get  his  New  York  address  ?"  asked 
Katharine  when  her  aunt  told  her.  Aunt  Mary 
hadn't  thought  of  that.  She  telephoned  again. 
There  seemed  to  be  some  difficulty  about  get 
ting  Mr.  Seymour,  and,  when  she  did  get  him, 
some  difficulty  in  making  him  understand 
196 


A    EEMINISCENCE 

what  was  wanted.  Then  she  asked  him  to  come 
up  and  see  Katharine,  and  he  called  shortly 
afterward.  The  truth  was  that  Aunt  Mary's 
request  for  Durant's  address  had  taken  him 
unawares.  Moreover,  he  was  hesitating  on  a 
delicate  question  that  he  had  in  mind.  His 
call,  however,  was  a  good  excuse  to  meet  two 
persons  in  the  big  town  who,  he  knew,  were 
George  Durant's  friends.  The  New  York  ad 
dress  that  he  had  hesitated  over  was,  after 
all,  simple — the  Holland  House.  Seymour 
explained  to  the  ladies  that  he  did  not  hear 
well  over  the  telephone,  so  he  repeated  that 
Durant,  when  in  New  York,  could  usually  be 
found  at  the  Holland  House. 

Katharine  liked  old  Mr.  Seymour  very  much 
indeed,  and,  as  for  old  Mr.  Seymour,  he  shook 
so  when  he  asked  Katharine  if  she  would  sing 
that  he  really  appeared  indistinct.  When  she 
saw,  as  she  looked  from  the  piano,  that  he 
was  crying,  she  turned  silently  back  and  sang 
again — an  old  song,  and  she  turned  with  a 
smile  that  dried  his  eyes  like  sunshine.  The 
shaking,  though,  continued  till  Katharine  was 
197 


THE   CLOSE    OF   THE   DAY 

afraid  he  would  fall  down-stairs.  She  took 
his  arm  and  walked  down  with  him,  laughing 
and  chatting  very  close  to  support  him,  not 
observing  that  the  closer  she  put  her  face  to 
his  the  worse  he  shook.  He  pulled  himself 
together  when  he  took  off  his  faded  straw  hat, 
and  he  clasped  her  hand  when  he  spoke  a 
tremulous  good-by.  "I  think  you're  the  hand 
somest  woman  I  ever  met " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Seymour!" 

"Yes,  I  do."  And,  though  Katharine  was  on 
the  front  steps,  she  wanted  to  throw  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  kiss  him. 

In  New  York  she  went  into  summer  quar 
ters  up-town  and  plunged  into  her  work, 
though  not  without  wondering  sometimes  why 
she  could  not  hear  from  Durant ;  why  he  was 
silent  after  he  had  once  lifted  the  curtain  of 
his  heart.  They  tried  the  Holland  House  not 
once  but  many  times,  and  always  in  vain ;  they 
could  get  no  word  from  there  concerning  Du 
rant.  Every  one  else  from  Chicago  came  at 
one  time  or  another  during  summer  to  see 
them.  Heat  seemed  to  make  no  change  in  the 
198 


A    REMINISCENCE 

round  of  visitors.  One  morning  at  the  theater 
Katharine  saw  Stein.  He  was  talking  to  Law 
rence,  and  Katharine  remembered  that  he  had 
professed  once  to  know  Durant.  She  detested 
Stein  with  every  instinct,  but  she  put  down 
her  aversion,  spoke  to  him,  and  let  him  scuttle 
up  to  her  that  she  might  ask  about  Mr.  George 
Durant. 

"George  Durant !"  Stein  bridled  like  a 
tarantula.  "  George  Durant  I"  Then  he  spat 
a  word  like  poison  from  his  mouth,  "Busted !" 

Katharine  did  not  hear  what  more  he  said ; 
she  went  home  dizzy  with  worry.  Aunt  Mary 
was  entertaining  a  caller,  and  Katharine  tried 
to  slip  unobserved  to  her  room,  but  she  could 
not,  for  it  was  George  Ross.  Not  quite  so 
joyful  as  nature  originally  made  him,  but  so 
gently  courteous  in  his  disappointment  and  so 
faithfully  kind  that  he  could  not  entirely  be 
got  rid  of.  This  day  he  found  Katharine 
heartsick,  and  she  did  not  hide  her  depres 
sion;  she  asked  for  his  sisters,  and  drawing 
off  her  gloves,  wearily,  told  them  both  of  the 
horrid  Stein's  news. 

14  199 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"I  don't  believe  it !"  exclaimed  Aunt  Mary, 
passionately.  "It  isn't  so !" 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  it,  Mr. 
Eoss  ?"  asked  Katharine,  appealingly.  "Have 
you  heard  that  Mr.  Durant's  house  has 
failed!" 

"No,  I  have  not,  Miss  Sims.  Not  an  intima 
tion  of  the  kind." 

"That  man  Stein  is  a  scorpion!"  cried  her 
aunt,  blazing.  "I  wouldn't  believe  a  word  he 
said  under  oath !  Mr.  Durant  couldn't  fail !" 

Katharine's  eyes  began  to  quiver. 

"Let  me  tell  you,"  suggested  Ross,  at  length, 
as  they  talked.  "I  have  a  bachelor  cousin  here 
in  New  York,  who  is  in  the  coffee  business  in 
a  small  way.  I  can  find  out  from  him  this 
afternoon  whether  there  is  anything  at  all 
in  it." 

"Can  you,  Mr.  Eoss  ?"• 

"Assuredly.  Did  I  never  tell  you  that  my 
father  when  he  died  was  a  partner  in  that 
house  of  Sloan,  Durant  &  Company?  It  is 
true.  He  once  had  an  interest  in  the  house. 
But  we  went  to  Chicago  to  live  after  father's 
200 


A    EEMINISCENCE 

death,  and  I  never  met  any  of  the  firm  till  I 
met  Mr.  Durant  at  your  home." 

"Why,  how  curious !" 

"This  afternoon  I'll  find  out  all  I  can  and 
let  you  know  to-night,  if  you're  going  to  be 
home." 

Aunt  Mary  would  not  let  him  leave  till  after 
luncheon ;  then  George  made  his  way  to  Wall 
Street,  to  Front  Street,  and  to  the  box-like 
office  of  his  cousin,  Sam  Ross. 

Cousin  Sam,  at  fifty-five,  looked  out  from 
under  grizzled  brows  that  still  struck  terror 
into  messenger  boys.  There  had  been  days 
when  others  trembled;  now  none  but  mes 
senger  boys  were  afraid  of  him,  and  of  those 
chiefly  the  younger. 

"George  Durant?"  he  growled.  "Sloan,  Du 
rant  &  Company!  Failed!  No.  Who  the 
hell  said  so  ?  No.  George  Durant's  been  hard 
hit  for  five  or  six  years — who  hasn't  in  the  cof 
fee  business  ?  But  if  that  fellow  ever  gets  his 
health  back  he'll  come  out  on  top  sure  as 
there's  oil  in  Texas.  Oh,  know  Durant,  do 
you?  Yes;  I  know  him.  Sure.  He  asks  me 
201 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

out  to  dinner  whenever  he's  here;  but  he 
hasn't  been  here  for  years.  I  tell  you,  Georgie, 
why  I  always  liked  him:  when  your  father 
died,  Sloan  was  the  head  of  the  firm.  The 
question  came  up  about  settling  for  your 
father's  interest.  Old  Sloan  was  a  smooth 
one.  The  Durants  made  the  money;  Sloan 
kept  it.  But  George's  father  was  an  invalid 
then,  and  Sloan  was  going  to  rob  your  mother 
- — everything  was  in  their  hands ;  they  had  an 
old-fashioned  cast-iron  partnership  contract. 
It  was  right  after  a  coffee  panic,  and  things 
were  mixed.  Sloan  was  going  to  rob  your 
mother  in  the  settlement.  George  Durant 
wouldn't  have  it.  Your  mother  wanted  to  get 
the  Chicago  City  Railway  stock — the  house 
had  a  big  block  of  it.  Sloan  said  no ;  it  was 
the  best  stuff  they  owned.  He  wanted  to  put 
off  some  wild-cat  real  estate  on  her  that  would 
have  ruined  her  in  taxes  and  special  assess 
ments. 

"One  night  your  mother  asked  me  to  go  with 
her  to  Chicago  to  see  George  Durant  about  her 
settlement.    Why,  he  told  her  she  should  have 
202 


A    REMINISCENCE 

the  stock  before  she  had  talked  five  minutes, 
and  he  entertained  her  while  she  was  in  Chi 
cago  like  a  princess,  by  God ! 

"That's  how  your  mother  got  you  children 
all  you  and  Bess  and  Julia  ever  had,  Georgie ; 
that  block  of  City  Railway ;  that's  right.  We 
took  you  and  Bess  along;  she  wasn't  six 
months  old  then. 

"Old  Tom  Seymour  told  me  once  about 
how  Sloan  and  George  had  it  out.  'Is  Ross's 
wife  more  entitled  to  it  than  any  of  the  rest 
of  us  V  old  Sloan  would  whine.  'Damn  it,  she's 
a  woman,'  says  George.  'She's  got  three  chil 
dren.'  " 

Cousin  Sam,  standing  with  one  hand  in  his 
pocket  at  the  counter,  scowled  out  of  the  win 
dow  ;  he  always  scowled  when  he  recalled  the 
past.  "Raining  again,"  he  muttered.  "If  this 
keeps  up,  I'm  damned  if  wheat  ain't  got  to  go 
down." 


203 


CHAPTER   XVI 

"IN    NEW    YORK" 

ON  a  certain  warm  day  in  September 
Thomas  Seymour  crossed  the  Washington 
Street  Bridge  carrying  a  heavy  suit-case.  The 
sun  was  burning  hot.  He  made  his  brisk,  un 
certain  way  under  the  elevated  and  in  the 
blistering  heat  of  Market  Street  toward  the 
shady  side  of  Washington.  Passing  the  cor 
ner  he  set  down  his  burden,  looked  about  him 
like  a  burglar,  and  taking  off  his  coat  drew 
his  handkerchief  and  mopped  his  face.  From 
Canal  Street  over  the  viaduct,  over  the  bridge 
and  across  Market  Street  under  a  hot  sun  is 
a  long  stretch  with  a  load.  Ignoring  the  temp 
tations  of  the  street-cars  as  he  passed  Frank 
lin  Street,  he  walked  unsteadily  on.  The  heat 
was  so  intense  that  the  street,  even  on  the 
204 


"IN   NEW   YORK" 

shady  side,  was  deserted ;  but  this  pleased  him, 
for  he  did  not  want  to  be  seen.  At  Fifth  Ave 
nue,  with  the  perspiration  streaming  down  his 
neck,  he  put  on  his  coat  again,  and,  shifting 
his  load  from  arm  to  arm,  kept  his  way  until 
he  made  the  long  distance  to  Wabash  Avenue 
and  turned  north  toward  the  office. 

Unlocking  the  door,  he  lifted  his  case — 
a  queer  box-like,  foreign  affair,  that  George 
Durant  had  picked  up  somewhere  in  his  long- 
ago  wanderings — and,  with  the  half  run  that  a 
man  gives  to  a  final  heavy  carry,  dropped  it 
at  the  vault,  swung  open  the  iron  door,  and  set 
it  inside.  Then  he  stepped  into  the  rear 
room  and  took  off  his  coat  to  wash  away 
the  dust,  the  heat  and  the  sweat  of  the  jour 
ney. 

Every  day  after  his  second  round  on  the 
street  with  his  coffees,  Seymour  turned  the 
key  in  the  office  door  and  started  with  that 
case  for  the  West  Side.  This  day,  after  a 
thorough  scrubbing,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  his 
sister  in  Brooklyn,  telling  her  how  hot  it  was 
and  how  busy  he  was ;  copied  it  before  he  re- 
205 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

membered  it  was  not  quite  necessary  to  copy 
that  kind  of  a  letter,  locked  the  office,  and 
started  on  a  long  walk  down  Wabash  Avenue. 

He  paused  at  the  door  of  a  shabby  apart 
ment  building  below  Twenty-second  Street, 
and  entering  walked  up  one  flight  of  stairs  and 
opened  the  door  of  the  front  room.  The 
room  was  large  and  the  ceiling  high.  The 
floor  was  carpeted  with  worn  Brussels;  the 
walls,  papered,  were  hideously  bare.  There 
were  two  stuffed  chairs  in  the  room;  a  com 
mode,  a  table,  a  stand  and  a  bed  of  black  wal 
nut,  with  a  forbidding  headpiece  that  hung 
above  like  a  canopy.  The  windows  were  hung 
with  Nottingham  curtains,  no  longer  fresh, 
and  worn  yellow  shades  through  which  the 
western  light  struggled,  cracked  and  spotted, 
made  the  heat  and  the  loneliness  of  the  cham 
ber  more  oppressive. 

"Is  that  you,  Tom?"  It  was  Durant's  voice 
from  the  bed. 

"Sure,  it's  me.  Is  it  you?  How  are  you, 
boy?"  He  lowered  his  voice.  "How's  the 
pain  ?  Eh  ?"  Bending  over  the  sick  man  while 
206 


"IN   NEW   YORK" 

he  held  his  glasses  in  one  hand,  he  mopped  his 
forehead  with  the  other. 

"Not  so  bad  as  this  morning." 

"Good  enough." 

"Is  it  very  warm  to-day,  Tom?" 

"It's  hotter  than  Tophet,  George,  to  be  plain. 
Yes,  it  is.  You've  felt  it,  I  know.  You  couldn't 
help  it.  But  it's  cooling  off  beautifully — in 
Baffin's  Bay,"  he  added,  mentally.  In  his 
queer,  shambling,  sidewise  way,  Seymour 
walked  to  one  of  the  windows,  stripping  his 
coat  and  waistcoat  off  and  hanging  them  on 
a  chair  as  he  went,  and  tried  to  raise  the  sash 
higher. 

"Be  careful,"  cautioned  Durant.  "There's 
a  hole  in  that  screen,  Bob  says,  and  the  mos 
quitoes  get  in." 

"Oh,  how  is  that  darky  boy?  Does  he  at 
tend  to  you  all  right?" 

"Yes.  I  let  him  go  home  at  five  o'clock.  I 
don't  really  need  anybody  here  during  the  day. 
They're  kind  down-stairs.  How's  the  market 
to-day?" 

"Rotten." 

207 


THE    CLOSE    OF   THE   DAY 

"What  about  the  yellow-fever  talk  at  Rio?" 

"It's  all  talk." 

"Sell  any  goods  to-day?" 

"Better  believe  I  did,  and  got  a  nice  line  of 
offers,  too.  Yes,  I  did." 

"What  did  you  sell,  Tom?" 

"Well,  now,  just  wait  till  I  get  you  fixed 
up  for  your  dinner  before  you  talk  business. 
It'll  be  here  in  a  few  minutes." 

Seymour's  constant  effort  was  to  keep  Du- 
rant  from  talking  business.  There  was,  in 
fact,  no  business  to  talk,  so  the  tired  book 
keeper  evaded  details.  It  was  true,  that  day 
he  had  sold  some  goods;  but  not  of  the  line 
usually  handled  by  Sloan,  Durant  &  Com 
pany.  Seymour  had  ceased  to  rely  entirely  on 
the  coffee  market.  He  peddled  his  samples 
twice  every  day  faithfully  through  the  gro 
cery  district,  but  in  vain.  Then  he  turned  to 
a  resource  undreamed  of  by  the  founders  of 
the  honored  house  which  he  alone  represented : 
he  loaded  himself  with  quite  a  different  line  of 
samples,  and  started  for  the  West  Side  to  sell 
ink.  In  Canal  Street  Seymour  was  as  safe 
208 


"IN   NEW   YORK" 

from  acquaintances  as  lie  would  have  been  in 
Bridgeport.  He  posed  in  Canal  Street  as  an 
expert  in  writing  fluids.  Moreover,  on  Canal 
Street  he  could  do  business  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
which — during  this  terrible  August  and  Sep 
tember,  with  Durant  sick  in  bed  and  the  cash 
balance  getting  sometimes  below  three  fig 
ures — was  something.  But  the  bookkeeper 
would  no  more  have  whispered  "Ink"  to  Du 
rant  that  he  would  have  shouted  "Fire !"  He 
thanked  God  for  the  few  dollars  he  picked  up 
by  the  sweat  of  his  brow  in  Canal  Street  for 
current  expenses,  and  in  the  sick-room  he 
talked  coffee. 

That  night  he  succeeded  with  his  dodging. 
After  tasting  the  light  meal  brought  in 
from  a  neighboring  cafe",  Durant  fell  into  a 
stupor.  Seymour,  reduced  to  a  pair  of  Du- 
rant's  winter  trousers  and  a  shirt,  sat  in  the 
half-dark  near  the  window  waiting  for  bed 
time.  Durant  woke  presently  and  asked  for  a 
drink.  The  bookkeeper  took  up  the  pitcher  of 
iced  water,  kept  carefully  under  a  newspaper 
cone,  and  gave  him  a  drink,  hoping  he  would 
209 


THE    CLOSE    OF   THE   DAY 

sleep.  But  Durant  lay  wakeful,  and,  talking 
for  a  few  moments  coherently,  began  to  ramble 
over  new  plans  for  his  business. 

"The  trouble,"  he  muttered,  unsteadily,  "is 
the  lack  of  spot  goods." 

"That,"  echoed  Thomas  Seymour,  softly,  in 
his  stocking-feet,  "is  exactly  the  trouble." 

"Storage  can  easily  be  arranged." 

"Sure,"    assented    Seymour,    cocking    his 
burning  feet  upon  the  window  ledge. 

"Money  is  cheap  enough." 

"Never  was  so  cheap,"  groaned  Seymour. 

"With  decent  facilities  we  can  put  the  house 
to  the  front,  Tom,  in  six  months." 

"Less  than  that." 

"Eh?" 

"I  say  less  than  six  months." 

"All  I  want  is  my  health." 

"That's  all." 

"But  they  must  consign." 

"They've  got  to  consign." 

Durant  lay  back.  "While  you're  awake,  let 
me  change  your  pillow,"  suggested  Seymour, 
dragging  himself  to  the  bed. 
210 


"IN    NEW    YORK" 

"Tom,  you've  always  been  faithful." 

One  day  the  old  bookkeeper,  making  head 
along  Washington  Street  for  the  West  Side, 
was  congratulating  himself  that  he  had  never 
yet  been  seen  at  it  when  a  woman  stepping  out 
of  a  newspaper  office  accosted  him:  he  had  a 
telescope  as  big  as  a  steamer  trunk  in  each 
hand. 

"Mr.  Seymour!" 

Thomas  fell  a-trembling.  "Yes,  Miss — 
Miss " 

"Miss  Anthony — you  haven't  forgotten 
me?" 

"No,  no.  Certainly,  I  haven't.  How  do  you 
do?" 

''Where  have  you  been  keeping  your 
self  ?"  she  cried.  "I  have  gone  way  down 
to  the  office  twice,  and  it  was  locked  both 
times " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  Durant.    Where  is  he !" 

"In — in  New  York." 

"You  wicked  man  1  What  have  I  ever  done 
to  you?" 

211 


THE    CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"Nothing,  nothing.    Nothing." 

"He  is  not  in  New  York.  He  is  here  and 
sick,  and  I  know  it." 

The  load  of  ink  tumbled  to  the  curbstone. 
"I — I  can't  help  it !"  exclaimed  Seymour,  des 
perately.  "He  won't  let  me  tell  anybody.  I 
have  to  say  New  York  when  he  is  down  this 
way — he  doesn't  want  it  known,  Miss  An 
thony." 

Her  eyes  blazed.  "Well,  I  do  know  it.  I 
want  to  know  whether  he  is  very  sick.  I  want 
his  address !  I  am  going  to  him !" 

Before  Seymour  could  collect  his  shocked 
faculties,  Miss  Anthony  was  away  with  the 
address.  Nor  did  she  lose  any  time  in  using 
it. 

Within  an  hour  she  stood  at  the  door  of  Du- 
rant's  room.  She  knocked.  There  was  no 
answer.  She  knocked  again.  A  colored  boy 
opened  the  door.  His  face  had  a  wild  look. 

"I  came  to  inquire  about  Mr.  Durant." 

"Yes'm." 

"How  is  he  ?  What  is  the  matter?  Don't  you 
understand !" 

212 


"IN    NEW   YORK" 

The  boy,  trying  to  speak,  glanced,  fright 
ened,  into  the  room,  looked  at  her  again  and 
stammered,  "Yes'm."  Through  the  open  door 
she  saw  Durant,  his  head  bent,  supporting 
himself  against  the  mantel.  Breathing  with 
painful  exertion,  he  was  staggering  out  of  a 
paroxysm,  and  he  gripped  his  side  with  his 
hand.  She  could  not  repress  a  cry,  but  he 
gave  no  heed.  His  face  was  pinched  and  his 
pallor  sickening;  it  was  a  dreadful  face, 
looking  out  of  agony.  Running  toward 
him,  streaming  with  pity,  she  put  out  her 
hands. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Durant!  Can't  I  do  something?" 
She  threw  up  her  veil  and  he  recognized  her. 

"You  are  suffering  so !"  she  cried,  checking 
herself  as  she  advanced. 

With  an  effort,  ghastly  in  intensity,  he  drew 
himself  up.  He  tried  to  speak. 

"Do  not ;  do  not !"  she  exclaimed,  grasping 
a  chair;  "I  understand." 

His  head  fell  an  instant,  then,  supporting 
himself  still  on  his  elbow,  he  slowly  raised  the 
handkerchief  in  his  right  hand  and  wiped  the 
213 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

damp  from  his  forehead.  Pushing  forward 
the  chair  she  begged  him  to  sit  down,  but  when 
she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  he  shook  his  head 
and  breathing  heavily  for  a  minute  stood  per 
fectly  still.  He  tried  a  second  time  to  reach 
his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief,  and  could 
not.  Then  she  took  it  from  his  hand,  and 
steadying  him  wiped  the  chill  sweat  herself; 
but  the  touch  of  his  hand  frightened  her,  it 
was  so  cold.  He  tried  to  look  his  gratitude, 
and  at  length  sat  unsteadily  down  in  the  chair. 

"How  did  you  ever  find  me?"  he  asked, 
pausing  spasmodically  between  the  words. 

"Had  I  known  sooner  you  were  ill  I  should 
have  found  you  sooner.  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  you 
are  ill." 

He  put  up  his  hand  helplessly  to  arrange 
the  disorder  of  his  neck.  "I  am  subject  to 
these  attacks." 

"Must  you  suffer  so?" 

"I  am  easier  now." 

"Had  you  not  better  lie  down?" 

He  shook  his  head.    "I  can  not  lie  down." 

"Is  there  nothing,  nothing  I  can  do !" 
214 


"IN    NEW   YORK" 

He  raised  his  eyes  with  something  of  the  old 
roll  and  lifted  his  hand  toward  the  other  chair. 

"You  may  sit  down,"  he  smiled,  nodding, 
feebly  courteous,  "and  tell  me — how — you 
have  been." 


15 


215 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ERRORS  AND  OMISSIONS  EXCEPTED 

ON  the  following  Sunday  Seymour  set  out 
after  dinner  charged  with  a  message  for  Ma 
bel  Anthony.  To  Durant's  annoyance  items 
concerning  his  condition  had  crept  into  the 
newspapers.  Seymour  was  to  find  Mabel  An 
thony  and  get  her  to  contradict  the  reports 
and  to  beg  her  to  see  that  no  more  were  print 
ed.  He  was  to  thank  her  also  for  the  flowers 
on  Durant's  table  that  morning. 

The  old  accountant,  none  too  collected  at 
best  since  the  demoralization  of  his  affairs, 
made  hard  work  of  his  errand.  After  he  found 
Miss  Anthony  it  was  such  a  relief  to  talk  with 
a  sympathetic  heart  that  he  tarried  beyond 
his  intention,  and  when  he  again  reached 
lower  Wabash  Avenue  it  was  growing  dark. 

For  two  nights  Durant  had  had  no  sleep, 
and  Seymour's  parting  injunction  had  been 
that  he  should  lie  quiet  and  try  to  get  a  nap : 
216 


ERRORS  AND  OMISSIONS  EXCEPTED 

the  silence  about  the  halls  and  within  the  room 
as  he  paused  at  the  door  on  his  return  gave 
him  hope  that  the  sick  man  was  sleeping.  He 
turned  the  knob  stealthily. 

The  fire  that  he  had  left  smoked  low  in  the 
grate,  but  the  windows  still  caught  the  faint 
light  of  the  western  sky.  Under  the  shadow 
of  the  overhanging  headboard  Durant  sat 
propped  up  among  pillows.  His  arms  were 
crossed  on  his  chest,  and  with  his  chin  lying 
on  his  breast  his  mustache  almost  hid  his 
mouth.  His  brows,  grown  shaggily  gray, 
shaded  his  sunken  eyes,  and  Seymour,  tip 
toeing,  could  not  decide  whether  he  was  asleep 
or  awake. 

"Back,  Tom?" 

The  bookkeeper,  making  his  way  toward 
the  grate,  turned  with  apprehension.  "I 
thought  you  were  asleep." 

"No ;  I  haven't  been  asleep  since  you  left," 

The  old  man  took  off  his  glasses.  "What 
have  you  been  doing?"  he  demanded. 

"Thinking." 

"Thinking?"   echoed   Seymour,  helplessly. 

217 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

"What  now?"  he  asked  with  a  bluster  of  re 
proof. 

"  I  know.  Worrying  about  business 
again. ' ' 

"No,"  answered  Durant,  slowly,  "Not 
that.  I  Ve  been  thinking  of  my  wasted  oppor 
tunities.  ' ' 

The  arc-lamps  in  the  street,  bursting  into 
life,  threw  white  patches  on  the  headboard. 
Seymour,  shuffling  to  the  grate,  poked  at  the 
smoldering  fire.  He  talked  of  Mabel  An 
thony;  talked  of  better  times;  of  opportuni 
ties  that  would  come  again.  But  Durant 
spoke  only  once.  He  spoke  of  some  life  in 
surance  which  he  told  his  bookkeeper  ran  now 
in  his  favor ;  then  he  asked  to  have  his  table 
fixed  for  the  night. 

Seymour  brought  from  the  bathroom  a 
pitcher  of  water  and  from  the  mantelpiece  a 
spoon  and  a  glass  of  medicine  that  Ingraham 
had  left.  He  put  these  on  the  stand  beside 
Durant's  watch.  Near  the  watch  lay  a  tiny 
bottle  containing  a  number  of  small  white 
pellets. 

218 


ERRORS  AND  OMISSIONS  EXCEPTED 

Seymour  took  the  bottle  up ;  it  was  without 
a  label. 

"What  is  this,  George?" 

"What?" 

"This." 

Durant  looked  up.    "Morphia." 

"What?" 

"It  is  morphine." 

Seymour  looked  at  him  in  alarm.  "I  never 
— you  don't  take  morphine?" 

"No."  But  the  old  man's  expression  did 
not  clear;  uneasiness  pinched  his  tired  face. 

"It  is  morphine.  I  have  carried  it  a  long 
time,  Tom ;  I  have  never  touched  it.  Dr.  Sims 
gave  me  that  bottle  once  because  I  demanded 
it;  that's  all.  I  promised  him  I  should  never 
touch  it  so  long  as  I  could  stand  the  pain. 
Tom " 

"Yes." 

"I  have  suffered  the  torments  of  hell." 

"I  know  it." 

As  Durant  closed  his  eyes  his  mind  seemed 
to  wander.  "How  many  are  there?"  he  mut 
tered,  rousing. 

219 


"How  many?" 

"How  many — in  the  bottle?" 

"Oh."  Seymour  emptied  the  pellets  into  the 
palm  of  his  hand  and  counted  them  carefully. 
"There's  twenty,  George." 

"They  are  all  there.  He  gave  me — twenty. 
I  got  them  out — I  looked  at  them — this  after 
noon.  Tom?"  breathed  Durant,  closing  his 
eyes  as  his  face  set. 

"Yes." 

"Put  them " 

"Yes." 

"Put  them— in  the " 

"Bottle?" 

"No."  Lighted  an  instant  by  a  spasm  of 
his  iron  will,  the  sick  man's  eyes  opened. 
'Wo."  He  drew  himself  up.  Supported  on 
one  hand  he  pointed  at  the  fire.  "There." 

As  Seymour  hastened  to  obey,  Durant 
watched  the  little  greenish,  bluish  hell  flame 
burst  faintly  into  the  yellow  blaze  of  the  fire. 

He  lay  back,  and  Seymour  sat  down  at  his 
side.  He  brightened  for  a  time,  and  they 
talked  of  old  Front  Street  days.  When  drowsi- 
220 


ERRORS  AND  OMISSIONS  EXCEPTED 

ness  appeared  at  last  to  overcome  Mm,  Sey 
mour  stole  away  to  his  own  bed. 

Once,  in  the  night,  the  old  bookkeeper 
dreamed,  and,  dreaming,  heard  a  cry  and 
woke  trembling  and  listened. 

But  there  was  no  cry;  only  the  darkness 
and  the  silence  of  the  night.  And,  listening, 
he  fell  again  asleep. 


That  night  Katharine  was  speeding  to  Chi 
cago  to  the  side  of  George  Durant.  Aunt 
Mary  had  seen  in  her  Chicago  paper  the  news 
of  his  serious  illness.  Katharine  had  wired 
Seymour  at  once  for  information,  and  he  had 
replied,  but  vaguely,  almost  unintelligibly. 
It  was  Saturday  when,  in  despair,  she  wired 
Mabel  Anthony  for  word.  Late  Saturday 
night  at  the  theater  the  answer  was  handed  to 
her.  When  she  got  home  George  Ross  was  sit 
ting  with  her  aunt.  Katharine,  weeping,  hast 
ened  into  the  room  with  the  despatch. 

"He  is  very  ill  and  not  well  cared  for,"  Ma 
bel  Anthony  had  said. 
221 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

The  plans  were  made  at  once,  and  only  the 
details  were  discussed.  After  they  had  talked 
together  George  Ross  spoke.  "If  you  are 
going, ' '  he  said,  "I  shall  go  with  you.  I  should 
leave  for  Chicago  Monday,  in  any  case.  You 
don't  know  just  where  he  lives  now ;  perhaps 
I  can  help  you  to  find  him  quickly.  If  you 
will  let  me,  I  will  go,  too." 

They  reached  Chicago  Monday  morning, 
but  there  had  been  delays,  and  it  was  past 
eleven  o'clock  when  their  carriage,  driven 
straight  from  the  station,  stopped  in  Ran 
dolph  Street  near  Wabash  Avenue  and  George 
Ross  got  out. 

The  green  counter-shades  on  the  Randolph 
Street  side  were  drawn  half-way  up  the  win 
dows.  Passing  the  brass  corner-sign  George 
Ross  stopped:  there  was  crape  on  the  office 
door.  He  tried  to  look  inside,  but  the  drawn 
curtains  prevented,  and  seizing  the  thumb- 
latch  he  shook  it.  The  curtain  presently  was 
lifted  aside  and  a  ghostly  face  stared  at  him. 
It  was  the  face  of  Thomas  Seymour :  the  liv 
ing  wreck  of  the  house  that  was  dead.  Behind 
222 


ERRORS  AND  OMISSIONS  EXCEPTED 

Ross  there  were  sudden  sobs ;  the  two  women 
coming  after  him  had  seen  the  death  token. 
The  bookkeeper  let  them  in. 

"I  want  to  go  to  him,"  whispered  Katharine, 
when  she  could  speak.  "Now,  at  once.  Oh, 
Mr.  Seymour,  take  me  to  him." 

The  four  drove  down  the  avenue  to 
gether. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Katharine  faltered, 
and  Mabel  Anthony  hearing  ran  down  to 
clasp  her  in  her  arms.  They  helped  her  to 
Seymour's  room.  Aunt  Mary  and  Mabel  An 
thony  went  in  to  where  Durant  lay.  Ross 
knelt  at  Katharine's  chair,  and  while  she 
cried  his  hand  crept  over  hers. 

When  the  others  had  withdrawn  from  the 
front  room,  she  asked  that  she  might  see  him 
alone.  George  Ross  supported  her  into  the 
hall  and  putting  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
closed  door,  paused. 

"I  did  him  an  injustice  once,  Katharine," 
he  said.  "When  I  learned  of  it  I  wrote  to  him, 
telling  him  I  understood  better.  I  think  per 
haps  he  forgave  me.  I  think  he  was  a  man 
223 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY 

that  could.    I  did  not  know  even  until  yester 
day  of  all  that  he  had  done  for  you.    If  I  am 
not  wholly  unworthy,  I  want  to  go  to  him  now 
with  you.    May  If 
And  they  went  in  to  the  dead  together. 


(3) 


THE     END 


224 


A  NOVEL  OF  REAL  IMPORTANCE. 

The  Law  of  Life. 

By  ANNA  McCLURE  SHOLL.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  remarkable  novel  presents  an  entirely  new  and  a  very  enter 
taining  feature  of  American  national  and  social  development.  Miss 
Sholl  has  sought  her  inspiration  in  the  life  and  interests  of  a  large 
University,  as  that  life  is  felt  and  known  from  the  faculty  and  post 
graduate  standpoints.  The  author  has  brought  to  this  fascinating  and 
unfamiliar  subject  a  close  personal  knowledge  and  an  enthusiastic 
appreciation  of  its  possibilities  for  literary  purposes. 

"  The  book  is  exceptionally  interesting.  ...  A  genuine  touch 
of  dramatic  power." — Harry  Thurston  Peck. 

"  An  impassioned  romance,  told  with  admirable  balance ;  absorb 
ingly  interesting  and  one  of  the  most  vital  novels  of  the  day." — Lillian 
Whiting  in  the  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  The  writer  unfolds  an  every-day  tragedy  with  that  touch  of  inevi- 
tableness  that  we  usually  associate  with  the  work  of  the  masters." — New 
York  Evening  Telegram. 

"  A  remarkable  story  in  many  respects  ;  it  makes  one  think,  as  well 
as  sympathize,  and  gives  pleasure  as  a  tale  as  well  as  stimulates  as  a 
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"  The  book  has  not  only  a  literary  grace  and  distinction,  but  a 
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and  a  strong  feeling  for  that  law  of  life  from  which  the  book  takes  its 
title." — Louisville  Evening  Post. 

"  Miss  Sholl  has  handled  her  subject  with  admirable  sureness 
of  touch,  with  dignity  and  proper  restraint.  Her  lovers  are  be 
ings  of  flesh  and  blood,  not  puppets ;  she  faces  the  problem  fully, 
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tional  merit  as  the  product  of  an  American  pen."  —  New  York 
•Mail  and  Express. 

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A  NEW  BOOK  BY  MISS  FOWLER. 

"  For  months  to  come  the  story  will  be  talked  about  by 
some  millions  of  the  population  of  the  British  Islands." 

— Literary  World,  London. 

Place  and  Power. 

By  ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT  FOWLER,  Author 
of  "  Concerning  Isabel  Carnaby,"  "  The  Farring- 
dons,"  etc.  Illustrated.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  story  of  an  ambitious  young  man  whose  most 
cherished  aims  are  frustrated  through  retributive  justice. 
The  story  is  full  of  interest  and  attractive  characterization, 
the  main  action  of  the  plot  is  skilfully  hidden  until  the 
right  moment,  and  the  dialogue  is  entertaining  and  clever. 

"A  story  as  brilliant  as  it  is  wholesome.  Wit  and  satire  flash  in  the 
dialogue,  and  the  love  scenes  are  delightful." — Evening  Sun,  New  York. 

"  A  better  book  in  some  respects  than  the  much  read  '  Isabel 
Carnaby.'  " — Evening  Post,  Louisville,  Ky. 

"  Keeps  up  her  reputation  for  epigram,  brilliant  delineation  of  char 
acter,  and  social  climaxes." — Courier-Journal,  Louisville,  Ky. 

"  Full  of  intellect  and  brightness." — Globe-Democrat,  St.  Louis. 

"  Miss  Fowler's  old  lightness  and  cleverness  of  touch  show  through- 
out  the  book."—  The  World,  New  York. 

"  The  same  ring  of  keen  insight,  understanding  of  types  of  human 
nature,  and  ability  to  create  brilliant  conversations — the  faint,  whimsical 
describing  of  the  hearts  of  her  characters,  which  gives  so  vivid  and  last 
ing  a  conception  of  their  personalities." — Pioneer  Press,  St.  Paul. 

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TWO  IMPORTANT  WORKS  OF  FICTION. 

The  Silver  Poppy. 

By  ARTHUR  STRINGER.     12010.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  notable  story  should  appeal  to  a  wide  public  through  its 
originality  of  plot,  its  dramatic  interest,  and  the  literary  charm  of  its 
description  ;  while  the  dialogue  never  flags  from  start  to  finish.  The 
New  York  of  to-day  is  reproduced  in  graphic  and  apt  scenes  as  it  has 
not  often  been  done  before,  with  poetic  appreciation  for  its  beauties  and 
a  keen  eye  for  its  dramatic  values. 

"  The  story  is  'possessed  of  much  literary  merit,  full  of  movement, 
and  shows  the  author  to  be  a  poet  as  well  as  a  master  of  fiction." 

—  Washington  Post. 

"Worth  reading  for  its  own  sake,  on  account  of  its  deft  and  delicate 
handling  of  a  complicated  psychological  case." 

— New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  A  novel  of  first-rate  dramatic  quality  in  construction  and  style,  and 
its  climaxes  are  worked  up  with  fine  dramatic  art  and  spirited  dialogue." 

— Brooklyn  Eagle. 

The  Career  Triumphant. 

By  HENRY  B.  BOONE,  joint  Author  of  "  Eastover  Courthouse  " 
and  "  The  Redfield  Succession."  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

It  is  always  an  entertaining  subject  when  the  life  of  the  Old 
Dominion  is  made  the  theme  for  a  well-written  novel,  but  Mr.  Boone 
has  succeeded  in  placing  in  the  environment  of  contemporary  Virginia 
rural  life  a  number  of  delightful  characters  set  in  that  environment  with 
absolute  fidelity.  The  social  life  of  the  present-day  Virginia,  with  the 
assured  sense  of  culture  and  ease  that  comes  of  its  well-defined  social 
limits,  is  given  with  perfect  coloring. 

"  Should  take  a  prominent  place  among  the  early  autumn  books." 

— Boston  Transcript. 

"  As  a  study  of  Virginians,  Bourbon  and  reconstructed,  it  is  accurate 
and  entertaining." — Boston  Advertiser. 

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SOME  NEW  AND  VIVACIOUS  FICTION. 

Four-In-Hand. 

By  GERALDINE  ANTHONY.  Frontispiece.  i2mo. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  It  is  a  relief  to  find  a  story  of  society  in  which  there  are  no  nasti- 
nesses  and  scandals.  For  that  reason,  if  for  none  of  its  other  good 
qualities  of  style  and  humor,  the  book  can  be  recommended  warmly." 

—  The  New  York  Press. 

"  The  old  story  of  a  grave,  masterful  man  and  an  artless  maid, 
dimpled  and  defiant,  is  told  in  persuasive  style.  The  author  entertains ; 
more  she  does  not  aspire  to." — The  Boston  Advertiser, 

Shipmates. 

A  Volume  of  Salt- Water  Fiction.  By  MORGAN 
ROBERTSON,  author  of  "  Masters  of  Men,"  etc.  With 
Frontispiece.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

When  Mr.  Robertson  writes  of  the  sea  the  tang  of  the  brine  and  the 
snap  of  the  sea-breeze  are  felt  behind  his  words.  The  adventures  and 
mysteries  of  sea  life,  the  humors  and  strange  complications  possible  in 
yachting,  the  inner  tragedies  of  the  foks'l,  the  delightful  adventures  of 
Finnegan  in  war,  and  the  original  developments  in  the  course  of  true  love 
at  sea,  are  among  the  vivid  pictures  that  make  up  a  volume  so  vital  in  its 
interests  and  dramatic  in  its  situations,  so  delightful  in  its  quaint  humor, 
and  so  vigorous  and  stirring  throughout,  that  it  will  be  read  by  sea  lovers 
for  its  full  flavor  of  the  sea,  and  by  others  as  a  refreshing  tonic. 

The  Outlaws. 

A  Story  of  the  Building  of  the  West.  By  LE  ROY 
ARMSTRONG.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Promises  well  for  the  literary  career  of  its  author." 

— Philadelphia  Press. 

"Full  of  life  and  picturesqueness,  spirited  and  brimming  with 
incident  and  character." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

While  Charlie  Was  Away. 

By  Mrs.  POULTNEY  BIGELOW.  i6mo.  Cloth, 
75  cents. 

Mrs.  Bigelow  tells  a  wonderfully  vivid  story  of  a  woman  in  London 
"  smart "  life  whose  hunger  for  love  involves  her  in  perils,  but  finds  a 
true  way  out  in  the  end. 

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A  REMARKABLE  HUMAN  DOCUMENT. 

The  Journal  of  Arthur  Stirling. 

Revised  and  Condensed,  with  an  Introductory 
Sketch.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.25  net;  postage,  12 
cents  additional. 

This  volume,  in  which  a  great  deal  of  advance 
interest  was  shown  by  readers  and  reviewers,  de 
scribes  the  trials  and  tribulations  of  a  man  of  educa 
tion  and  culture  who  had  high  literary  aspirations,  his 
wanderings  among  publishers  and  magazine  editors, 
the  impressions  he  gained  by  the  way,  and  his  death 
by  suicide.  Of  this  tragedy  the  New  York  Times  and 
New  York  World,  in  June  of  1902,  gave  full  reports, 
with  a  letter  addressed  by  Stirling  to  one  of  his 
friends  just  before  he  drowned  himself  in  the  North 
River. 

On  receipt  of  the  manuscript  of  this  Journal  from 
an  intimate  friend  of  Stirling's,  the  impression  made 
by  it  in  the  office  of  D.  Appleton  and  Company  was 
so  overpowering  that  it  was  finally  decided  to  submit 
it  to  several  literary  men  and  women  outside  the 
office,  in  order  to  arrive  at  a  consensus  of  opinion 
concerning  what  seemed  to  be  a  most  remarkable 
literary  production.  Altogether  five  different  per 
sons — four  men  and  one  woman  —  read  it.  The 
opinions  they  submitted  were  practically  the  same — 
that  they  had  never  read  a  more  remarkable  human 
document.  Few  books  published  within  a  year  have 
been  more  widely  quoted  from.  The  New  York 
World  devoted  one  entire  page  on  Sunday,  February 
15,  to  a  notice  of  it. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


By  FRANK   R  STOCKTON. 
The  Captain's  Toil-Gate. 

A  Complete  Posthumous  Novel  by  FRANK  R.  STOCK 
TON,  Author  of  "Kate  Bonnet,"  ''The  Lady  or  the 
Tiger,"  etc.  With  a  Memoir  by  Mrs.  Stockton,  an  Etched 
Portrait,  Views  of  Mr.  Stockton's  Home,  and  a  Bibli 
ography,  izmo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  scene  is  partly  laid  in  Washington  but  mainly  in 
that  part  of  West  Virginia  where  the  author  spent  the 
last  three  years  of  his  life.  Incidents  centering  about 
the  "  Toil-Gate  "  and  a  fashionable  country  home  in  the 
neighborhood  are  related  with  the  author's  peculiar 
humor  and  charm  of  diction  which  have  endeared  him 
to  a  host  of  readers. 

The  heroine  who  is  an  embodiment  of  the  healthy 
vigorous  girl  of  to-day,  and  her  several  suitors,  together 
with  the  mistress  of  the  country  house  and  a  meddlesome 
unmarried  woman  of  the  village,  combine  to  present  a 
fascinating  and  varied  picture  of  social  life  to  the  present 
day. 

"  In  the  story  we  have  the  real  Stockton  at  his  best  and  brightest. 
The  fun,  the  whimsicality,  the  queer  doings,  the  very  delightful  people 
are  such  as  his  readers  have  been  entertained  with  for  so  many  years. 
The  fertility  of  invention  and  'ngenuity  is  as  fresh  as  in  the  early 
stories,  and  perhaps  Mr.  Stockton  never  came  nearer  to  success  in 
trying  to  keep  a  long  story  together  to  the  end  without  digressions  or 
a  break  in  the  plot.  The  heroine  is  a  charming  girl,  her  married 
hostess  still  more  charming,  and  there  are  plenty  of  others  the  reader 
will  be  glad  to  meet. 

"  Mrs.  Stockton's  sketch  of  her  husband  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  a 
lovable  and  delightful  personality  and  shows  the  author  at  work  just 
as  the  readers  must  have  imagined  him.  Swinging  in  a  hammock 
under  the  fir  trees,  or  when  winter  came,  in  an  easy  chair  before  a  big 
log  fire,  he  dreamed  his  fancies  and  dictated  them,  bit  by  bit,  as  they 
came,  to  his  secretary." — New  York  Sun. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


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